Zwischenzug
by Mazzie May
Summary: The in-between check. Out of nowhere, they're suddenly losing. The world is beginning to burn; Sherry is missing, Chris is losing it, and how many mistakes can Leon pay for. Series-spanning roster, multiple arcs tying together into a bloody knot of ghosts and goals. Maybe love is the worst that can happen—after the monsters. There's no end to a circle.
1. prologue: kriegspiel

**Author's Note: immeasurable thanks to TheDonutMistress for nurturing this brain baby. **

* * *

><p>prologue<p>

**kriegspiel**  
><em>noun<br>/ˈkrēɡˌSHpēl,-ˌspēl/  
>players do not know the moves of the other and<br>determine their moves based on limited information_

_Rajasthan Province, India_  
><em>22 July<em>  
><em>Thar Desert; privatized jet<em>  
><em>02:14 PM<em>

Sherry's eyelids flutter slightly.

But she then shuts them rather tightly, with a small noise in her throat, as she stretches in her chair. She doesn't remember falling asleep, but she's hardly surprised. It's been a busy couple of days. From Lanshiang, her and Jake were flown to New Dehli to meet with UN officials. They would be transporting Jake's blood samples and New Umbrella's half-year research to the World Health Organization for further review and testing. After an awkward goodbye that Sherry is sure will continue to leave her chest feeling tight for years—_why did I have to make it lame?_—Jake walked out of the hotel lobby and her life.

After purchasing a new laptop, she split her time between working on her report and wishing she had said something better to him other than 'see ya.' Sherry was still kicking herself when she got on the jet to London. From London Airport she would fly back to DC with a connection in New York. More tired than she had realized, she can't recall anything after finishing her field log and starting a cup of tea.

With a gentle sigh, she opens her eyes and looks around. The cabin is dark, and the man in the seat across the aisle from her is casually flipping through a copy of _SkyMall_ by the light of his window. Blinking drowsily, she licks her dry lips, glancing up and down the aisle. _Gosh, I'm so sleepy_, her mind slurs through the fog. Just as Sherry starts to wonder if she should just sleep the rest for the flight, something about the man's window is strange. Squinting at it, she realizes nothing is moving past. Confused, Sherry twists slowly in her seat to lift the blind on her own window—_I thought I left this open?_ she ponders with a yawn—to find the same static scenery.

On the ground.

Some of her alarm begins to cut through the haze that's settled in her brain, and she grips her arm rests, leaning back out into the aisle. Lifting herself up a bit, Sherry can see no heads over the tops of the chairs ahead of her, and craning her neck to look behind her shows equally empty seats. There's no one. Just her.

And the man beside her.

The creaking leather of her chair is very loud as she eases back into her seat, leaning away from him. With both of their windows unblocked, there's enough light for Sherry to get a good look at the man. Correct that to _boy_; he doesn't look like he could be much older than she herself looks. They both could pass for high schoolers. His hair is red, darker than Jake's, and long enough to be swept to the side. Sherry recognizes it as a popular hair style right now, from all the magazines Simmons would bring her. An olive dress shirt is rolled up to the elbows and the top three buttons are undone.

Her chest is becoming tight as her eyes travel down the outfit. Ignored dark red suspenders hang from a checkered black and white belt. His pants are black jeans, cut skinny, and end at his converse. They're in the shadows from under the seat, and she can't tell if they're black or just some other dark colour.

He's clean shaven, and has a small hoop earring he keeps absently playing with as he turns the pages with his other hand. She's trying to decide if those are sweat bands on his wrists, when he notices she's awake. He watches her from the corner of his eye for moment, before tossing his magazine aside while turning in his chair to face her.

"Heya!"

His enthusiastic tone and matching smile aren't anything she expects, and some part of Sherry wonders if this is some bizarre dream. He's good looking, with nice teeth, and Sherry's reminded of some actor as she looks at him. The name never comes to mind, though, and in her tired, chest burning stupor, she gets distracted by his eyes. A startling green, they almost glow surrounded by dark lashes.

He chuckles, raising an eyebrow. "Don't forget to breathe, Sher-bear."

A beat.

Sherry exhales, realizing that _that_ is why her chest had begun to hurt. Her blush won't be limited to her cheeks, and her face tingles as blood rushes down her neck. She's still gripping her armrests tightly, shrinking away from him. "Sorry about the tea," he blurts into the silence, surprising Sherry enough that her next breath hitches. "Looks like we got the dosage wrong. Our bad," he shrugs apologetically.

"Man, you were out for _hours_," he goes on, reclining in his seat. His head is tossed to the side to keep looking at her. "I was actually _reading_ that _SkyMall_; _that's_ how long you were out for. Like, the _articles_." He makes a big show of suffering a shudder. "However, the app to start your Nespresso is kinda cool. How would it use the creamer, though?"

Apparently these aren't questions for Sherry to answer. Or anyone else, as he shrugs off his own made mystery, and returns to leaning on his arm rest to talk to her.

"Enough about that." All that youthful mirth vanishes from his face, his slight smile falling into a joyless smirk. "Let's talk about you."

The change ages him somewhat, and Sherry becomes even more sure he's like her. She can_not_ put her finger on it, but something about the man _resonates_ with her; she's nearly certain, on a _viral _level. And there is no comfort from that feeling. She can understand she's been drugged; that explains the befuddlement she's looped in. It won't last much longer; all the years of experimentation proved that _G_ will always break down the proteins of such medication sooner rather than later. Right now, Sherry's very glad for it.

"Who _are_ you?" she asks, willing her voice to keep anything high pitched out of her words.

"Ah-ah." His tone is something dark, and there's no light behind his eyes to match. How they can be so vibrant and void is jarring. "We're talking about _you_."

Despite the fact that she can survive anything, Sherry isn't excited to get hurt. This guy has done absolutely nothing, and Sherry finds him very scary. She can't help swallowing, but she forces herself to sit forward and unclench her hands, pulling her fingernails from the leather.

"You drugged me. _Why_?"

She's pleased with her authoritative tone of voice. Apparently, so is he; a flash of amusement crosses his face. She isn't sure if that's any kind of good news.

He takes a long breath. "Well, Sher-bear, this," and he gestures around the empty plane. "This takes quite a bit of set up, believe it or not." There's that nickname again. She can feel her eyes narrow at it. "So we had to Sleeping Beauty you for a little while."

"Why?" she asks immediately, nearly not waiting for him to finish. The fog is starting to clear, and her bravado is beginning to shine through. "Do you have any idea what it means to attack a United States government agent?"

The boy shrugs. "I can wager a guess, but it's not like we 'attacked' one of those." He makes air quotes around her term, muttering that they didn't attack anybody.

She scoffs angrily. "What are you talking about?" Sherry places a hand on her chest, addressing herself. "_I'm_ a government agent. Don't you _know _that?"

He turns away from her then, reaching into the seat closest to the window. Sherry leans forward, stretching her neck out to see what he's doing. He faces her, a file in hand. Better than a weapon, she guesses. It's blue and she can read her name on it as he twists it to and fro in the air.

"Don't _you_ know you're not?" he asks enigmatically, handing her the folder. Frustrated and confused, she hesitantly reaches across the aisle and takes the file.

_**All personnel actively associated with Derek C Simmons will be detained for questioning following recent events that have revealed the former National Security Adviser has not been acting in this country's best interest.**_  
><em><strong>All will be stripped of individual security levels.<strong>_  
><em><strong>If any actively associated personnel are determined to be ignorant of Simmons' actions, they will be relocated to another branch site.<strong>_  
><em><strong>All actively associated personnel will be undertaking this review.<strong>_  
><em><strong>With the exception of S. Birkin: Once back on US soil S. Birkin will be returned to Project Thunderclap regardless of findings.<strong>_  
><em><strong>S. Birkin will be relocated to the NV facility to continue Thunderclap.<strong>_  
><em><strong>These conditions are nonnegotiable. Be prepared to replace staff effective immediately.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Their assigned parking spaces will be up for bid—<strong>_

It's a copy of a memo from the new National Security Adviser, Lee Nelson. _It-it says they're going to… going to… _Her bravado is quickly flickering out, and Sherry shakes her head at the boy, like he can do anything about this. "This isn't right," she tells him, and her throat is getting tight. "I _earned_ my freedom. They said I didn't have to _do_ Thunderclap anymore. They said—"

"Ah-ah," he repeats. One arm is propped at the elbow, his chin sitting on a closed fist. "They didn't say jack. _Simmons_ did." She blinks wide eyes at him, turning back to the open file on her lap. Her lips move, but she isn't making any sound. He decides to help her out.

"You asked me who I was earlier." Sherry swallows thickly, feeling a pressure behind her eyes as she stares down at the damning text. "We'll get to that. I represent a concerned individual," he goes on, adjusting his head to lay his cheek against his hand. "Someone who'd like to offer you true freedom—"

"You're lying."

His jaw snaps shut with an audible clack from his teeth. Her breathing is getting choppy. "_You're lying_," she insists again. "You made this whole thing up just to get a BOW." There's not a lot of conviction in her voice, like she doesn't believe it herself. She's grasping at straws, and both she and this stranger know it.

"Could be," and his tone is so gentle Sherry is prompted to look at him. The nice guy that started the conversation is back on his face, and his voice is now kind. "But, I'll tell ya: we'd hate for you take the risk and go back, Sherry." It's the first time he's used her actual name, she notes dully. "I think we both know the only thing waiting for you is a_ cage_."

_He's right_, she despairs. Looking back down at the memo, a wet spot appears on the paper before all the words swirl away, unreadable through unshed tears. In Nevada, there is a cage waiting for her. Where they're going to take blood until she can't stand; ask if it hurts when they bring the scalpel down; give mechanical apologies that no anesthetics work on her; gouge out so much meat just see what grows back, and it always grows back, _why do they keep taking it? Why do the needles have to go in my eyes—_

"Breathe."

With his reminder, she gasps, because it comes with the touch of his hand. She blinks tightly to get the tears out of the way so she can see what's happening. He's reached across the way to hold her hand. He's just as pale as her, but she's distracted by weird temperature of his touch. His skin is very cold, but it's like Sherry can feel a great heat from behind it. She can feel her wet lashes as she looks at his face.

"We deserve better than cages." She sniffs, aware of his phrasing but too upset to point it out. "And that concerned individual? He can provide the life we deserve. He's already helped a few of us. Let him help you."

With her nose stuffed up, Sherry takes several small breathes through her mouth in an effort to compose herself. It could still all be a trick, she tries to reason, because they wouldn't do this to her. But he made a good point: it was Simmons that pulled strings to get her out of the experiments; it was Simmons that told her she could have an on sight apartment when she returned; Simmons that allowed her visitors, treats, and pop culture magazines to make her feel like she still knew what was going on in the world. If she ever needed anything, from a reprieve from experiments to human interaction, Sherry could go to Simmons. He always took care of her.

And now his replacement is undoing everything he did for her.

Licking her recently chapped lips, she asks, "Why?" She shrugs in something near defeat. "Why me?"

His eyes stare past her, focused on something far away. "Right?" he agrees quietly, though that's not exactly how she meant her question. Bringing his attention back to her and addressing her actual concern, "You'll have to ask the man himself." He's still holding her hand, and gives an encouraging squeeze. "Only way to do that is to come with."

His other hand reaches out and takes the tear smeared file from her. "Is it safe?" she asks, watching him step out into the aisle and stand. He begins to head for the door by the cockpit, and she stumbles up to follow him.

Sherry is surprised to find the pilots simply sitting at the controls, apparently waiting patiently. The stewardess that served her the tea is standing casual by the exit. With a polite and slight bow, she reaches for the locking lever. Sherry's mind rewinds back to when he mentioned 'all this' taking time to set up. This is clearly a lot bigger than she even considered, and this Concerned Individual has money and power that maybe even Simmons would think twice about balking at.

A thin trimming of light lines the door as it slowly begins to open. They're still holding hands.

"It can't be any worse, right, Sher-bear?"

She hopes not.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hoo boy. The existing schedule is to update every Tuesday. I'm writing chapters in advance, which is new to me. Right now I'm only eight ahead. If I wind up kicking it up a gear and maintaining that kind of distance between updates, I'll see if it's reasonable to update twice a week. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna stick the schedule and finish the story! As always, thoughts and concerns (and theories!) are always welcome. Be good to each other.<strong>


	2. chapter 1: priyome

**Author's note: Forgive the slow burn. Wildfire will begin shortly. My sister proof read this for me. Thanks, butt.**

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><p>chapter one<p>

**priyome**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em>pree-YOHM/_  
><em>a russian term for simple strategic devices that depend on pawn structure<em>

_Chicago, Illinois_  
><em>19 September<em>  
><em>North American BSAA biochemical research HQ; Dr Chambers' office<em>  
><em>12:19 PM<em>

Rebecca happily picks at her chicken Caesar salad.

She's excited to have a guest for lunch. Her tiny legs are crossed at the ankle, absently swinging back and forth beneath her desk. Opposite of her, with a chair pulled all the way up to her desk, is Chris Redfield. And Rebecca could not be more tickled about it. The ever elusive Redfield hasn't been in her life for something shameful, like eight years. They might have wound up working for the same organization but that's little more than in name only. Her department is a 'home' division, where she rarely leaves her building. That suits her just fine, thank you very much. The fewer ghouls she can meet, all the better.

Chris, on the other hand, is a crazy person that runs towards the monsters. He's very rarely stateside because of it, and as a part of heavy fire teams, he isn't the kind of field agent that collects samples and brings them to Rebecca's side of the world. She wrinkles her nose at thinking of him as 'crazy'. That joke isn't funny anymore now that he's on a mandatory leave of absence for evaluation.

Apparently Edonia had been _really_ bad, bad enough that there was a stir in the brass over it, and then China went and had to be _worse_. In an entirely _un_Redfield-like fashion, Chris didn't bounce back. According to rumors, he hit rock bottom and made camp. Rebecca hates that the man in front of her is confirming the hearsay.

She dips her fork into her dressing on the side before stabbing a tiny diced tomato. Chris is tearing into his Philly cheesesteak, talking around a mouthful of steak and provolone.

"We should do this more often," he tells her.

Holding a hand in front of her mouth to politely talk with her mouth full, "Do what?" She pauses to swallow, noting that with a few more days to it, Chris' scruff will officially be a beard. "You, crashing through my door with a sandwich?"

He swallows, nodding to himself. "Yeah."

"Okay," she grins, hoping there's no lettuce in her teeth. "I'm down."

Rebecca considers her time post-Umbrella well spent. She finished three degrees, and landed a job that is not only in her field, but still world saving. Her salary is embarrassing for someone whose parents were teachers, but Mr and Mrs Chambers weren't at all offended when their brainiac daughter paid off their mortgage. Rebecca herself finally left her apartment in Skokie for an uptown condo on Michigan Ave. The high fashion boutiques and near-criminal prices of the area are absolutely not Rebecca's world. But it makes her feel very, very grown up.

At 5'3", she needs all the help she can get.

"Glad to hear it," he tells her, preparing for another bite. "Like you had a say."

She laughs with her smile.

Having a gorgeous place to come home to is also a pleasant distraction from the fact that that's _all_ she's coming home to. And her kitty Beau. Almost twenty years later, and she still hasn't found The One. She has been married, though there hasn't been anyone since. As a widow, no one gives her a hard time about it. George had been _wonderful_, of course, but. She definitely married her best friend, not a lover. Her problem is that she carries torches. One for the train wreck in front of her.

The other for a man she survived a literal train wreck with, and probably never made it out of Arklay Forest.

Rebecca brings a thin slice of chicken up to her lips. "How are things with Claire?" she asks before biting down on her fork.

"Oh." His mouth is full, and he struggles to get the food out of the way for him to talk. She's glad she asked; he's lighting up like a Christmas tree. His eyes are almost bright blue again.

He finally manages to force the too big bite down. "She's great; so great. She's," he laughs, happy about nothing that's here. "She's great, yeah. So. Yeah."

"Good, I'm glad," she tells him and means it. "What's she doing these days?"

He blows out a breath, setting down his artery clogging sandwich before leaning back in his chair. She tries not to notice that Chris ignores his napkin in favour of his jeans. "I don't know?" he answers honestly. Rebecca tilts her head near sideways. He shrugs sheepishly and twirls his finger next to his head for the universal gesture for 'crazy'. "Things are kind of screwy right now." Dropping his big hand back in his lap, "If she's had a big assignment, I can't remember what it is.

"I _do_ remember, however," he goes on, brushing his nose. "That she was a rock star down in Kijuju."

Rebecca's fork hangs in the air. "_Claire_ was in Kijuju?"

"Mmhm," he nods. "She was a part of the relief efforts. She was there day and night. _And_." Rebecca sets down her fork with a small laugh. He's suddenly so animated, she'd hate to miss the show. "So, I'm Chris Redfield and no one can get a hold of _me_?" She's careful to keep her face from showing the exasperation the truth of that comment inspires. "_I _couldn't get a hold of _her_. She was just _that_ busy."

She nods, a thought coming to mind. "She's, uhm. Psychiatry?"

"She's—no. She is…" Chris exhales through his nose in thought. "Psychology."

"Oh, okay."

"Yeah. I think it's psychology?" He shrugs, reaching for his sandwich. "Therapy of some kind, where she specializes with children." Chris holds his lunch in his hands, and it takes her a moment to realize his stare is unfocused. His eyes are completely relaxed, no point of interest. He's somewhere else—

"There weren't a lot of kids left, by the end of it."

—and it breaks her heart.

Lamely, all she can offer is, "Oh."

"Yeah." He's quiet a moment more, and then with a shaky breath he's back in the room. "So she lent her efforts to the adults, which she's perfectly good for, too."

Rebecca plucks her fork back up, determined to not let any of that darkness hang around, and smiles at him. "Right, of course."

"Yeah." Finally, he brings the sub up to take a bite. "I'm really proud of her."

"You sound like it!"

And that's a good enough note to end on, the both of them pointedly more interested in their lunches than each other. Chris is such an inspirational mess, and Rebecca will probably always find a moment to look at him with starry eyes. He's lost a lot of weight, since the last time she saw him. She's not too distraught about it, though. He had taken up weight lifting as a part of his occupational therapy for dealing with his depression, Rebecca remembers Jill telling her a long time ago.

Chris got _uncomfortably_ large. His bicep had been bigger than her waist, and she didn't understand why there was even still crime in the world, since apparently Chris Redfield can bench press _the_ _planet_. He's about half the size he was then, which is still leagues more built than anyone he'll ever come across. Rebecca knows the drop in size is probably more from a poor development of mental health, but she does appreciate that he no longer takes up half a room. Not to mention the calorie intake to maintain that size must have been heart-clenching.

"How are _you_?"

She blinks. For whatever reason, the question surprises her. Maybe because no one asks anymore. "I'm very good, thank you."

"Yeah?"

"_Yes_." Why does he have to sound like he doesn't believe her? That tone reminds her of the Spencer Estate, when he asked if she could handle herself with a gun. How _unsavory_. "Things are nice and quiet, I see no monsters, and I only have to use a gun during the firearm permission renewal."

Chris snorts. "Boring."

"Pft! I love it!"

"Forget it."

He reclines in his chair and they smile at one another. _This is nice_, she thinks. Her and Chris have always gotten along well. Whether they were stumbling around a zombie infested mansion, or pouring over days of information after blitzing to Europe ahead of Jill and Barry. They make an unsuspectingly solid team. It's these scattered instances over the years that have so much staying power to Rebecca, keeping that torch lit. When they danced (a bit awkwardly due to height differences) at her wedding, it was an old dream come true for an eighteen year old Rebecca.

Chris never settled down with anyone. He's had girlfriends over the years, girls that are always a bit younger than him (how encouraging!), but Rebecca always thought he might have been waiting around for Jill. Who always managed to be in long term relationships, somehow. Things have changed, though, between them. Well, between Jill and anyone: she's not really _Jill_ anymore, is she?

Maybe if Rebecca wasn't such a coward she'd ask to move these lunches to dinner, at her place.

Just as Chris is finally paying attention to his napkins—in the sense that he is wadding them up into balls to sort of use them for their intended purpose—when he gets a phone call. _Shoot to Thrill_ plays from his jeans' pocket. He tosses the crumpled napkin onto her desk with the other one, and leans back in his chair to get leverage.

"That's me," he mutters, looking at the screen.

She laughs at that. "Yeah, I _guessed_." An odd day, when AC/DC is her ringtone.

"Sorry," he offers, taking the call. She holds up a hand to say it's nothing, and busies herself with clearing off the trash from her desk.

"This is Chris Redfield." Plucking up his balled napkins, she drops them into her cleaned out salad bowl. She points at his sandwich wrapper for permission to toss it, and he nods without really looking at her. "—_Where_?" Rebecca tries to keep the crinkling of the paper minimal as she crushes it between her hands. "Is it residue from the China outbreak?"

_Well_. Rebecca knows it's _rude_ to ease drop. She picks up the now full plastic bowl and sets it slowly into the trashcan next to her desk to keep quiet. So as not to disturb Chris, of course._ Not_ listen in on his side of the conversation, that would be _uncalled for_.

"So, it's—" Chris sits with his elbows on the desk, one hand holding the phone against his head with the other pressing against his temple. "Right, yeah. Okay." His look of concentration changes quickly. "No, no, it's fine. I appreciate the call. I—"

He looks at her suddenly, and she can't help leaning back a bit with an expression of cautious suspicion.

"Actually, _we'll_ take it."

"_Huh_?"

"Agents Redfield and Chambers, North American BSAA. …Yeah."

Her eyes bulge. "What? No!"

"Affirmati—"

"_Negative_!" she calls loudly. "Negative, negative!"

"Yeah, thanks, bye." He hangs up quickly as she raises her voice. Moving to return his phone to his jeans, he gives her an odd look. "Now what's _your_ deal, Becky?"

She gapes at him. "_Chris_. Did you not hear me when I said I like my life quiet?"

"Did _you_ not hear me call it boring?"

When Rebecca calls herself a coward for not pursuing Chris at any point, this is what she's afraid of. His inability to not work, to not stay still. She wants roots, to settle down. The only land in Chris' name is his cemetery plot. Which is going to get used sooner than anyone would like at the rate he's going. It's stressful and frightening, and Rebecca has an incredible amount of respect for Claire. Keeping up with him daily must be such a nightmare.

"Chris," she pleads. "I don't _want_ to be on the front lines anymore. I _worked_ not to be there."

Something softens all the hard lines on his face. "You think I don't know that?" he asks gently. "You won't be. It's some backwoods, barely-a-town in Russia. After China the whole continent is jumping at shadows. We're going to tell them they're being spooked out by local animals or something."

She's still frowning, though now she feels a bit bad thinking he'd be so carless with her. "What?"

"There is no infection activity on record."

"Chris—"

"It'll be just like old times," he offers with that disarming crooked grin. Poor choice.

"Our _old times_," and she leans forward over her desk, "was nearly being eaten by a _gigantic snake_."

To which he counters, "We weren't. You're welcome, by the way."

Rebecca opens her mouth, taking in a deep breath to give him some what for, but he beats her to it. "Would you rather we pull some agents out of a _real_ crisis?" He's giving her a look she can recall very clearly from their STARS time. It makes her feel foolish, even now. "Or would _you _rather suit up?"

It's true enough that the China-India border is in total chaos due to a biohazard. In an absolutely shocking development, it's _unrelated_ to Lanshiang. Rebecca herself has worked on a few samples; it's definitely a T-based virus, something resembling very early incarnations of the T-virus. It doesn't match anything that's on file currently, and she finds that bizarre. The scientist in her is intrigued. Unspliced _T_ doesn't exist anymore. As far as anyone can tell, pure _T_ disappeared before the CDC or WHO could get samples, and years before the BSAA existed. Umbrella's failsafes are thorough, if nothing else; no physical evidence exists within the crater the explosion leaves behind.

But the stuff from the China-India border is the closest they've ever seen to a live, raw strain of_ T_. They know what they're looking for, thanks to the numerous documentation confiscated from Umbrella facilities after their financial collapse (That stung, by the way. All the fighting they did, the friends that were lost, and in the end, they had _zero_ impact on Umbrella's bottom line. It simply sunk with numerous other conglomerates during the economic implosion). This stuff is close but no cigar; something just a touch stronger but a lot fresher.

The flesh and tissue aren't rotting as quickly as other T-based viruses. Luckily, most of the time the cell degeneration destroys the body to the point of immobility. Still hazardous, of course, but invaluable for eradication and clean up. Having infected that could move around for longer is not only dangerous for locals and the soldiers, but it can lead to a repeat infestation if a zombie wanders away and then back into a populated area.

"I suppose… when you put it like that," she begins to consider, but something comes to mind suddenly. "You aren't cleared for active duty, though!"

"I…" He draws the word out, like he's trying to think of a way around it. She stares at him. "…am not cleared for duty without a doctor present." A beat. "_You're_ a doctor."

Her lips smack as they part in disbelieve. "Not that kind of doctor!"

"The paperwork doesn't say that anywhere. It just says doctor."

Chris might have gotten away with it if he hadn't made a show of looking wide eyed and innocent. Him and Kermit the Frog. He _planned_ this, all this: dropping in out of the blue for lunch; _suddenly_ getting a mission offer when it's impossible for him to be on the reserve roster. An all hands on deck order _is_ in effect, but not for people like him and Jill. Rebecca would be assigned before either of them. Her eyes narrow.

She only lets him sweat for a moment, though. "Alright," she concedes, skipping over calling him out. She'll save it for later. The situation sounds a little sketchy, but hey; she _is_ a doctor. Besides, she hasn't been on a mission since before she met George.

Setting aside her work morals is suddenly worth it, as Chris brightens immediately. Really, when he's like that, his eyes are almost like they used to be. Back when he had a desk covered in paper footballs and ignored reports that Forest would complain about whenever he came in for his shift.

"Thank you, Becky."

Her drawer closes with a loud _click _after she's retrieved her purse.

"You are _not_ welcome, mister."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: In case I failed as writer and didn't make it obvious, there is some time hopping that's done. It might get kind of of time-y wime-y, but there's always a timedate/location stamp so our heroes are easier to keep track of. I don't know you, but I'm wishing you the best. Happy Thanksgiving. We update Tuesdays.**


	3. chapter 2: kibitz

**Author's Note Edit: apparently uploaded an unedited version. Sorry.**

* * *

><p>chapter two<p>

**kibitz  
><strong>_verb  
><em>_/kitbits/  
><em>_making comments on a game that can be heard by the players  
><em>

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Khutors; town square<em>  
><em>08:24PM<em>

Rebecca's changed her mind.

She's glad she came. The flight over was surprisingly pleasant. Nearly ten and a half hours of Chris snoring like a bear while Rebecca poured over some theories about _T_ and T-based viruses. It seems that the older research is the most accurate, and she spent a lot of her time looking over her husband's work.

Rebecca met George in grad school. Nearly twenty years her senior and a divorcee, neither was really aware of each other's existence at first. She's friendly, though, and he was receptive to chatting, and one late night she struck up a conversation. Turns out they had the world in common.

He had been a surgeon before surviving Raccoon City, and wanted to change his field to help study the viruses. It's hard to find people who understand suffering that kind of trauma. Yet there they were, and both insufferably smart to boot. Through long days of research, they learned they both shared the same trouble in love; being married to the job leaves little room for romance.

When she announced that she'd be leaving early to return to the field, though, he made time. He told her she needed to help him re-categorize his results; it's the least she can do, he joked, what with her 'abandoning' the project. They had dinner first, and it was nice to talk about silly bio-chem things and laugh. So they did it again. And again. Lots of agains later, before either of them knew it, they were rearranging his furniture to make room for her end tables. Of course, there was making the awkward introduction to her parents, only seven years older than him. They liked him, though.

And when the BSAA came knocking, saying it was time to move the labs to Chicago, George packed up their apartment while she packed up her work. They were a good fit, those two; things were easy and kind. They both agreed that their good work came first, and if one of them wasn't in their bed there's a good chance the other was buried in a lab as well.

The proposal was a little unorthodox. Her mother had been giving her a good natured hard time about getting married while Rebecca had her on speaker phone so she could work. She'd let her know as soon as something changes, she informed her mom for the millionth time. George's hand suddenly appeared on her desk, setting a small box down. Mrs Chamber inquired about the sudden silence from her daughter, and Rebecca laughed thickly, tearfully telling her mother that something had change.

At the wedding reception, which was small and casual because neither of them were showy people, Rebecca expressed some hesitance when asked about changing her last name. So much documentation is in her maiden name, not to mention plates and plaques; her field uniform (which she, admittedly, hadn't needed in years). George had come around to put an arm over her shoulders.

"_Dr Chambers won't change it for my sake,"_ he had said, giving her a comforting squeeze. _"It's what I've been calling her since we met. Changing it to 'Hamilton' would confuse an old man like me."_

And the whole reason she's even thinking about _any_ of that as she stands between rustic and eerie, yet lovely homes—in her _Chambers_ inscribed uniform—is because one of the moments Chris had been conscious on the plane, he'd noticed George's name on the head of the paper she was reading.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it," Chris blurts out suddenly, a lot of apology in his voice. She turns to look at him quizzically. "To the funeral."

She huffs a laugh, brushing the idea out of the air with an admonishing wave of her hand. "Please don't be, Chris," she tells him with a smile. "That's very sweet, but it needed to be a small affair. George would be embarrassed if the crowd was too big."

He gives a shrug and a nod that suggests he doesn't agree with her, and Rebecca takes a moment to think of the right thing to say as she plays with her fingerless gloves. Her attire is good for now, but she wonders how cold it'll get later at night. Cargo khakis rolled up nearly to her knee hold the gutted contents of a first aid kick. The hem of her white thermal t-shirt is visible from beneath the cream coloured blouse, as well as peeking out from beneath the short sleeves. It's only buttoned up to one past her breasts, and framed by the folded collar is an army green ascot tied close to her neck. It's wrapped around twice instead of once, creating a short knot, with no slack to make a bow.

Because Rebecca sees action once a decade, her hip holster is leather. Her BSAA standard M92F is buttoned in the matching thigh holster snug on her leg just above a cargo pocket filled with packets of gauze. Like most medics, she wears the earpiece for her radio on her left, so in case she's treating someone she doesn't have to move her dominant hand to make or answer a call (unless the medic is left handed, of course, and then the setup is flipped).

"I think," she begins just as he's passing her as they reach the middle of town, "It's nice that for once, you didn't have a funeral to go."

He smiles at her over his big shoulder, and she follows him into the open space.

The town square is surprisingly nice. It's built in an oblong circle, lined with shops and stores that have what she is assuming are apartments built overhead. There are no paved roads, and five dirt paths open up to the area. Though wide enough for cars, they're only seen two motor vehicles; a beat up pickup parked behind a house, and the police car they came in in. Which is simply a Jeep, by the way. As far as Rebecca can tell, the local law is all of nine men strong.

The whole area is laid with square stones, just far enough apart for scraggly grass to line them all. The stone isn't fresh, the surface worn over from weather with crisscrossed shoe scuffs. Clearly a popular area, what with it housing the market place _and_ the school.

Rebecca looks up at the only three story building around. They'd noticed it on their way in, and their police officer guide proudly informed them in near indecipherable English that it teaches 'all the years.' There are two square pouches buttoned to her holster. Normally meant for ammo, one is living up to expectations, and the other is holding her English-Russian dictionary. She pulls it out, looking to read the school's name. Rebecca's income is a lot for her, and she makes a point of donating to schools' science departments; why not this place?

_I bet it could use it_, she muses, trying to find the backwards 'N', И. Which is, apparently, the letter I? Rebecca tilts the book towards the dying sunlight, as if it will help her understand. "The most close-front unrounded vowel…?"

Chris peaks at what she's looking at and scowls good naturedly. "Don't you hate when the explanation is harder than the language?"

"Ugh, _yes_," she agrees, shaking her book a little in frustration. "Why couldn't this be a rural German village?" Pulling a short pen from her breast pocket, she begins to copy down the name of the school to translate later. "I would be set then."

He's moved behind her, peering into the dark windows of a bakery. "You took German, Becky?"

"Yeah," she answers a bit late, distracted, giving a lowercase 'b' a hat for Б. "I wanted to read some of the original notes for the Manhattan Project."

A beat.

"_Dark_."

She huffs a laugh and clicks her pen closed before looking at him. Pocketing her pen, "Yeah, well, speaking of dark," and Rebecca looks around them. "Where is our translator? I know I've been out of the game for a while, but don't they meet us at the airport?"

Chris moves to the next store up, cupping his hands on the glass to decrease any glare as he surveys the empty store. "Do they?"

"Don't they?" she counters, returning the dictionary to the pouch. "So BSAA members arrive as a team instead of separately?"

"Oh yeah?"

"…Because having members arrive late can give an impression of an emergency that asks for backup, and why am I explaining this to you?" Rebecca asks, hands on her hips. "As a field agent, you know all about this stuff. Heck, Chris, you wrote half the book on it." Jill wrote the other half, but neither of them mentions it.

Stepping away from the dusty glass, Chris takes another long look around the square, pointedly not giving her his full attention. "Our translator will be a local."

"A lo—" Rebecca stares at him, her lips parted in confusion. It's not necessarily forbidden, but it is expressedly frowned upon to use a non-team translator. It all comes down to trust issues; local civilians and police have been proven to omit, tweak or straight up lie about what's being said. Not necessarily to be malicious, a lot of times they think they're helping. But it's still not the truth, and that can lead to some real disasters.

Like the Mongol tribe leader that played down the numbers of infected to ease his people's mind. The BSAA went in under-manned, things went bad quickly.

"Chris," and she's doing that slight whining thing again. It always sounds through on his name. "We were _in_ Moscow. The Russian BSAA office is there; why _wouldn't_ they send a translator?" From Chicago to Moscow, they changed planes and it was another five hours to Irkutsk. She's purchased the dictionary at the Moscow airport, Sheremetyevo International, at Chris' off handed suggestion.

She's starting to see why, and is kind of mad about it.

At first he doesn't say anything, and the sun is barely peeking out over the mountains. Chris wears a dual shoulder holster in black vinyl, secured to a matching tactical belt. Like her, he's wearing light pants, though his are light grey. Obviously, unlike hers, his aren't rolled; instead the legs are pulled over the tops of his all-terrain shoes. His shirt is a dark blue-green, something recognized as 'BSAA green', made of a thin but resilient material to cut down on wear and tear. If Rebecca saw Chris more often, she might have recognized it as something similar to what he wore to Kijuju. Where Rebecca's gloves are entirely fingerless, Chris' are 'trigger' style, where only the index and middle fingers are free from the second knuckle up. The both of them have their branch's insignia sewn into the short sleeves.

They also both have militant flashlights clipped onto their belts, and she turns hers on right after him.

"Why didn't we check in in Moscow?" she asks, dreading the answer. "Why would our translator be local? Did we get here before we were supposed to?" They did leave the States rather quick.

Chris takes a deep breath, still taking a tour of the windows. "We…" and he's doing that trail off thing again, where she knows, just _knows_ she's going to hate whatever he says next. "Might not be… sanctioned to be here."

A beat would pass, but her heart stops.

"We're not—!" Rebecca realizes she's yelling, and lowers her voice to a harsh and still loud whisper. "We're not sanctioned to be here, Chris, _are you __**crazy**_?" She stomps over to him. "We're a US military presence in flipping _**Russia**_, and we're not _sanctioned_?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "The BSAA is world-wide," and she smacks the back of her hand against his chest the way she's seen Claire do it. "Ow."

"We're the North American branch, _and oh my God, Chris_." She buries her face in both her hands. "Why would you _do_ this to me?" she groans. "I thought we were _friends_. What could I have _done_ to deserve this?"

"Becky, it's gonna be fine—"

"Is this because of the _bug spray_?" she asks suddenly, looking up at him with big eyes. "Because I am _so sorry_ about that. I've been sorry since it _happened_—"

"Slow down!" he tries, putting his large hands on her tiny shoulders. "While I haven't forgotten the time you _temporarily blinded me_, this isn't some kind of punishment."

"It would be well played if it were," she concedes, anxiety starting to set in. "Waiting fifteen years for revenge is so impressive."

He laughs at that. "When I get you back for that, it'll be worse than this."

"Oh," she groans meekly, "Good."

Chris heaves a heavy sigh, stepping away from her. "Listen, I—we both know I'm not assigned to active duty." The sun is gone now, and stars are white against the darkening blue of the sky. "They're not returning me to the roster until I complete a mission, monitored by a doctor, who then submits a report on my performance and mental state."

It's Rebecca's turn to sigh, and she hugs her arms. "One of the guys in TAA owes me one." Threat Assessment and Assignment takes in all requests for BSAA presence, determines if the BSAA needs to be involved and, if so, to what extent and who's going. "I told him to give me a ring if anything real small came up," Chris goes on. His hand is rubbing the back of his neck again. "Protocol says, all I have to do is complete an assignment—no matter how inane—under supervision, and then, bam." He faces her again.

"I'm back leading a team."

She stares at him a moment, the shadows on his face still soft from what little light is left in the sky. At least he shaved yesterday, a day's worth of stubble is the only thing on his face. She blows out a breath. "Chris, I'm not even an MD. Besides which, I'm your _friend_. You think they won't worry about some favourtism?"

"I'm not worried about any of that," and she's surprised by how much she believes him. He's smiling like he did the day he said, _welcome to STARS!_ "You _are_ my friend, Becky. That's why I know you won't put me in danger. If I'm _not_ ready, you _will_ say so. I know you will."

Oh, how's she supposed to be mad at him _now_? That jerk.

"Alright." She returns him smile, though it's closed lip. "Let's see how you do with these bumps in the night."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I think I will post the next chapter on Thursday. Just because I realize a week between chapters before the monsters show up is asking a lot. My bad. Hope the weather is nice where you are. We update Tuesdays.<strong>


	4. chapter 3: squeeze

**Author's Note: Lame on me.**

* * *

><p>chapter 3<p>

**squeeze**  
><em>verb<em>  
><em>skwēz/_  
><em>gradually increasing the pressure of a bind<em>

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>12 September<em>  
><em>The Nile Plaza; Reception Hall<em>  
><em>11:02 AM<em>

Ashley Graham is getting married.

In four days. A tiara with real gem stones sits a little too far forward on her hair to make room for a large, teased pomp. It stays in place, though, even as she dances around in glittery shoes and a tiny, airy dress made of many layers of sheer fabric to negate the see-through aspect of the material. It's enough to spike any guy's blood pressure, though for entirely different reasons depending on whom you ask. For Leon Kennedy and former President Michael Graham (her former bodyguard and father, respectively), it's from stress.

The wedding proper will be held in the Sakura Gardens of Washington DC, despite it not being cherry blossom season. Originally, the wedding was planned for April, but her Marine fiancée is being deployed in _seven_ _days_, causing everything to be moved up. So Graham flew the two of them and their friends to Cairo for their bachelor and bachelorette parties. The rehearsal dinner is also being held there to best manage what little time they have.

Leon had been surprised to receive a phone call invitation from his former boss, but it's not like he was on any assignments at the time. He offered his plus one to Hunnigan, and the two of them caught the next flight out. Watching Ashley run around being… well, Ashley, Leon understands the personal invite now.

Her dad needs someone on his side, to talk his daughter out of stupid, expensive things.

_Why do I let people put me in positions like this?_ he wonders, stressing his peripheral senses to keep an eye on all _six_ bridesmaids as well as the bride. Somehow, Hunnigan has drawn the lucky ticket of keeping Graham company, while Leon gets stuck with the hyperactive ladies. Since Ashley has actually been kidnapped for political purposes, Leon's both charmed that she's still willing to talk to strangers and exasperated that she seems to insist upon it. Her social butterfly tendencies would take years off any secret service member's life, and Leon has shared several sympathetic looks this morning with the people assigned to her.

The girls are whirling around several expensive shops and boutiques, holding up scarves to the necks and making yay or nay expressions. In the chocolate store, Leon witnesses why American tourists are hated. He's embarrassed as well as tired, and incredibly thankful when it's time for to head back for lunch.

"How was shopping?" Hunnigan asks, her voice honey sweet, knowing exactly how it went. He sinks into his assigned seat next to her heavily and shoots her a scowl.

"It was like, totally awesome," he grumbles, reclining rather unsophisticatedly into the plush chair.

Hunnigan scoffs, amused, and begins to power down her Kindle. "Ashley does _not_ talk like that, Agent Kennedy."

Reaching for his wine glass of water, "No, but her maid of honour does." 'Ouch', she mouths before patting his arm sympathetically, adding 'there, there.'

"If it makes you feel better," she offers, grabbing her Kindle's case and zipping it in, "I spent the morning telling everyone's parents I'm not your girlfriend." She sounds unhappy about it, and he gives her an odd look as he sets down his water.

"You _aren't_ my girlfriend," Leon states.

"I know that; do _you_ know that?" and Hunnigan gives him a look. "I'd like you to keep a girl longer than a month so _she_ can go with you to these kinds of events."

"Oh."

This isn't the first time Leon's invited Ingrid Hunnigan to things like this. Ceremonies, weddings, funerals. Whenever he's offered two seats, Leon feels like the polite thing to do is fill it. It's almost always Hunnigan he asks to go with him. They know a lot of the same people through work, so a lot of times introductions can be skipped. She's as married to the job as he is, so stuff like this is about as often as they get out.

She's right, though. Leon never seems to be seeing someone at the time an invitation comes through the mail. That's just how it works out, though. It's not like he can control—

"Maybe if you didn't date like it's a _race to get to the end_," she goes on, not letting up on criticizing him.

"Alright, alright," he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'll ask someone else next time."

She nods at him. "Thank you."

"Geez," he mutters, and she pushes his shoulder playfully.

Just as he's shaking his head at her, Ashley arrives next to them. She's still in the same dress, but has added a long cardigan to the outfit, and suddenly it's tasteful enough for a rehearsal dinner. "Got a minute?" she asks. He and Hunnigan exchange surprised looks, but of course he complies.

There's a modest sitting room at the end of an offshoot from the hall. They ignore the couches provided and stand at the large window overlooking the plaza. She doesn't say anything right away, and he doesn't push her.

"Thank you."

Leon turns away from the view as she speaks. "I know I said it at least a hundred times, but." Ashley looks up at him, growing misty-eyed. "Thank you coming for me, in Spain. If you hadn't," and she sniffs. "Who knows what would have happened with that crazy cult. I would have become of those _things_, and—" Her voice breaks. She brings up manicured hands to dab at the corners of her eyes to keep any tears from ruining her make up. "They could've hurt Daddy, and Mom, and I never would have met Murry."

He smirks, amused and confused as she tries to keep the tears at bay. "You call your fiancée by his last name?"

"It's a military thing," she half laughs. "Daddy was in the Navy, so it just kind of makes sense for all of us."

"I see."

"Yeah." Ashley smiles, sniffing and wiping the back of her hand beneath her nose to make sure her nose isn't running. "I just—thanks. You know?"

It's Leon's job to rescue people. He isn't looking for any thanks. It doesn't make it any less good to hear, though, and he's never made a move to downplay it. As someone who started off unable to save anybody—Marvin, Ben, Ada; and then Claire saved Sherry and herself—he's _very_ happy to do it.

"Anytime," he tells her with a small smile. They both know he means it. God forbid, but if someone ever came after Ashley like that again, no one could keep him away.

Coughing a laugh, Ashley blinks the remaining tears away. "You know," she begins slowly, playing with her nails and taking a step towards him. He tilts his head in question. "Last chance to cash in on that '_overtime_'."

That blast from the past catches him off guard, and he lets out a bark of laughter. He puts a hand over his mouth as if that would stop the sound, and Leon grins at her. "Still gonna have to pass."

Her smile doesn't falter, and she shrugs. "Can't blame a girl for trying."

No, he guesses he can't. Her crush on him used leave him a bit uncomfortable, but now he's just flattered that it's stuck around all this time. "I think you did way better than me, anyway."

"Hee." She blushes at that. "Yeah, he's pretty cool," she admits with mock disinterest, and he smiles. Something occurs to her, and Ashley's face changes. "How are things with that woman, anyway?" He stares at her, unsure of what she means. "The one you couldn't let go of."

Oh.

How _are_ things between them? They used to be distant but still kind of charming, and Leon was alright with that. _Was_. Now, after Tall Oaks and China, he doesn't know what to think. That was definitely Ada on that tape. Chris says she murdered his entire squad, though, and then reported her dead. Yet, every time Leon sees her, she's her usual enigmatic self. Even so, something feels… different, off. And then she was saving his life after the report of her death came in. True, that was a little bit like what happened in Raccoon (maybe; the details of her survival there are still unclear), but there's so many more unanswered questions. Some of them too important for even Leon to ignore.

What a mess.

He realizes Ashley's staring at him, and he tries to get back with the program. "About as nonexistent as they've always been."

Now it's her turn to look at him oddly. "But she's here."

He freezes. "_What_?"

"That lady," Ashley insists, confused by his reaction. "I saw her in the lobby." He's still staring at her, trying to keep from asking 'what' again. She begins to pale. "Oh my God, you didn't invite her. I-I thought she was here with _you_.

"Oh my God," she hugs herself, becoming upset quickly. "Why is she here? Are-are there _things_ here?" Her pitch is rising with her fear, and Leon snaps out of his surprise and takes her by her shoulders.

He gives Ashley a gentle shake. "There are no things here, okay? I _promise_," Leon reassures her, and he can see her swallow thickly. "She likes to travel, and always stays at the nicest place in town." He assumes. Leon doesn't know anything like that about Ada, but it seems in character for her. "And your dad got you the nicest place in town. It's a coincidence at worst."

"And, and at best?" she asks, trying to calm down.

"It wasn't even her," he says with a forced smile. Which is also a possibility. It's not like Ashley spent any extended amount of time with the elusive Ada Wong, and it's been a lot of years. Still, Leon knows if he doesn't check into it, he's not doing Ashley any favours.

Leon moves to stand beside her and places an arm around her shoulders. "Now, c'mon. Cheer up, and let's go have some cake, okay?" She stares wide eyed at the floor for a moment more, but finally takes a deep sigh and settles herself.

She nods and licks her lips before she gives a weak, "Yeah."

"Good."

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>12 September<em>  
><em>The Nile Plaza; Reception Hall<em>  
><em>02:42 PM<em>

Once all the guests are sluggish with champagne and the aforementioned cake, Leon excuses him and Hunnigan to the same sitting room he and Ashley had shared earlier.

"_What_?"

Hunnigan stares at him, mouth agape, showing the surprise he felt earlier. "I think Ada's here," he repeats, keeping his voice down. Not that there's a lot of fear for being overhead with all the laughing and music, but better safe. "Ashley thinks she saw her in the lobby."

A hand comes to her mouth. "That's _insane_," she tells him, trying to match his low volume. "What on Earth kind of odds are that?"

"I don't know," he admits, checking down the hall to make sure no one has come looking for them. "Maybe she's on a holiday, or maybe it wasn't even her. Either way," he turns back to Hunnigan. "It's a bad idea not to check."

"No doubt," she agrees, putting one hand on her hip and letting out a long sigh. "I doubt she'd use that name with the registry," she ponders out loud, and Leon can see her trying to think of a way to determine if Ada is around. "If only she left some kind of electrical footprint. Or any kind of signature," she amends with a sigh.

Leon huffs a laugh, raking his hair back with his hand. "A business card, maybe, while we're wishing," he adds. InterPol has more on Ada than he'll ever see, but they'll never get access to it. Suddenly, he remembers something.

"The last thing Ada said to me in China…" and he starts scrolling through his phone. "…was in a text message. There." He finds it, having never deleted it. "Can you track this?" he asks, handing it to her. Hunnigan takes it, but she doesn't look excited.

"Maybe at the _time_, but I'm assuming you've tried to call it?" Leon hesitates and then nods. Might as well be honest. "No good, right? Then it's also no dice. I can't track the phone she _has_ with a text message sent from a phone she _had._" Checking back down the hall, Hunnigan walks to the window. After a moment, "…Not that we have to."

He frowns at her. "_Yes, we do_," he insists, sort of annoyed she would suggest not checking into it. "We absolutely need to find if she's here about Ashley."

"Oh, I agree," Hunnigan says, not looking away from the street below. "What I mean is, we don't have to track the phone."

Confused, Leon approaches the window, and looks out on the sunny street. Lots of people are all he sees at first, until she points. He squints at the café, and then his eyes widen.

There she is, sunglasses tucked into her hair, reading a menu.

Without a word, Leon turns and hurries to the elevators.

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>12 September<em>  
><em>The Nile Plaza; Beymen Café<em>  
><em>02:53 PM<em>

Ada likes Cairo.

Having finished her expresso, she grabs her clutch purse as she stands. The tourism is good, and the politics are just hectic enough to keep anyone that knows her at bay—

"Ada, wait."

-Genuinely stunned, she slowly turns around. Her lips parted in a small 'O' of surprise, she stares at Leon S Kennedy. "_Salām_, Officer," she tries with a small shrug, "You've got the wrong girl."

"If I wasn't expecting trouble," he scoffs, moving around a chair to get to her. Ada watches him come closer, shifting all of her weight to her hip, propping an elbow on the hand holding her clutch to tap a finger against her cheek.

"I see the sarcasm is biting today," she comments as he stops in front of her. Wearing what she is willing to bet are brand new, dark jeans, a white button up and the lighter of his two leather jackets, Leon must be here for something formal. This is about as dressed up as he gets, she's pretty sure. Mercy on his dates.

"Why are you _here_?" he asks her, stressing the last word. He doesn't mean Egypt, or even Cairo. He thinks she's crashing whatever's he's doing. _Small minded much, Leon?_

The sun is high in the sky behind her. Her skinny cut slacks are lace yellow, and her mint, airy blouse lets just enough of the breeze though. Though the sleeves are down to her elbows, she wears a strapless white under shirt to keep the sheer top modest. Gold heels, with a matching bracelet and long earrings, this is about as casual as Ada gets. Which works out for the desert weather.

"I'm enjoying some time off," she tells him honestly. She checks the dainty gold watch on her wrist. "And in a few minutes, I would _really_ like to be enjoying my time at the spa, so…" She trails, smiling at him in a way that suggests 'leave.'

Leon wouldn't be Leon if actually did her a favour on purpose, though. So there he stands, still looking at her, undecided between believing her, disbelieving her, and asking her a question.

"For grief's sake, Leon," she's rolling her eyes to the side. "I didn't know you were here, really. Can I go?" Ada bothers asking permission, but it's not like he can stop her. Apparently he knows that too, and after some kind of internal battle, he makes the decision to nod and step back.

"Yeah, alright," he says, slowly, like he's not happy about it. "We should… talk sometime, though."

She raises her eyebrows at that. "Actually, yes," she nods, popping up the clutch. "We should. I've been meaning to look you up, Officer." Ada pulls out a pen and a card, and uses the clutch as a surface to writing. "This can just save both of us the trip."

"You wanna talk about _China_?" he asks, taking the card, and reading her loopy writing. The card is for a hotel, on the back she wrote a time, with the instruction '_use your name_.' She'll call before her spa appointment, and change the suit to his name. Ada scoffs, as if offended by his question.

"I absolutely do _not_ want to talk about China," she tells him, returning her pen to her purse.

"Then why should I go?"

"Because it's about Sherry's whereabouts." That stuns him into silence, as she knew it would. She is not, however, expecting the expression. It's a little lost, like he doesn't know what she means. Then it clicks. "You didn't even know she was missing, did you." Ada doesn't make it a question.

"I—"

Checking her watch, she interrupts. "We'll talk about it tonight; I _really_ need to go." Stepping back from him, she moves into the crowd, and Leon wisely allows that to be that.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Anyone else think it's dumb that Leon seemed to only be vaguely aware of Sherry's situation in Resi6? Everyone do your best. Especially me since I didn't do an extra chapter on Thursday, and missed the regular update on Tuesday. I discovered Fatal Frame 5 and <em>holy crap<em>. We update Tuesdays, I promise.**


	5. chapter 4: refute

**Author's Note: I hoped you packed a lunch; this is a long one. No? Go ahead, it's okay. I'll wait. ...Nice choice. I went with the beef pastrami with deli mustard, myself.**

* * *

><p>chapter four<p>

**refute**  
><em>verb<em>  
><em>rəˈfyo͞ot/_  
><em>to demonstrate that a strategy, move, or opening is not as good as previously thought<em>

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Khutors; town square<em>  
><em>09:04PM<em>

Chris is having doubts.

He stands with his hands on his hips, fingers hooked onto his belt. The sun is well beyond the horizon now, the town square dark aside from where their flashlights cut through. He's willing to bet the whole village is one big blob of black, save for the occasional porch lamp. Glancing down the streets that lead to the collection of shops and the school, he can spy scattered yellow lights. There isn't a vacant home in Tyrka, yet a lot of the houses are still. No one wants anyone to know they're home.

Despite his judgment taking an admitted hit recently (between Edonia and Piers, can you blame him?), Chris can always trust his instincts. He may misinterpret them from time to time, but they're never wrong, and something heavy is sitting in his gut. That Redfield internal alarm he and Claire have discussed is sounding loudly in his head, contrasting with the tangible silence in the village. He's not having doubts that the people are afraid.

Chris is starting to think there may actually be a good reason for it.

"You okay?"

He pivots to look at Rebecca, where she's watching him with her hands casually clasped behind her back. He pulls a bit of a face and shrugs. "The stores," he says, lifting a hand to gesture around them. "They're a weird kind of empty."

She scrunches her nose cutely in thought. "I don't follow," she admits, walking up to what Chris assumes is a bakery. "How do you mean?"

"They're sparse," Chris goes on, trying to explain. She unclips her belt light to hold it up as she peers into the glass, one hand cupped by her eyes to ease the glare. "Not looted, though. It's like people came and bought everything, and no one bothered to order anymore."

Her voice echoes against the glass. "Maybe so," she concedes, but she sounds skeptical. "But that coincides with the information we got from TAA, doesn't it?" The light from the flashlight brightens the empty store enough for Chris to see inside from where he stands. "The locals have become near shut-ins since… whatever… started." She moves the light around, crossing it from a display shelf to the counter with a register. "That means not as many customers. This baker isn't going to spend the money and ingredients to make a whole bunch of stuff for people to not buy."

She leans away from the window then, twisting around to look at him. "You know? Seems like bad business sense."

Chris nods, keeping watch down the roads. "Even so," he answers, sounding distracted by the dark. "Seems like a long time for a rural place like this to be worried." She interlocks her fingers in thought, considering his words.

"Everyone's heard scary stories at some point growing up. There isn't an area on the planet that doesn't have some kind of urban legend only the locals know. Stuff to keep kids in line, or stupid stuff for teenagers to dare each other to prove." He runs a hand over his short hair. "But all the adults know it's not true. You learn that, as you get older."

Starting to follow his train of thought, Rebecca brings her hands beneath her chin. "So what are you thinking?"

"What would spook the adults into the supposed safety of their homes, even during the day?"

"The TAA said wild animals," she offers with a frown. Chris knows how badly she doesn't want it to be anything up their alley.

Looking back at her, he shakes his head in an apology. "I_ might_ buy that—but it's the _whole town_, Becky." Chris gestures wide before letting his arms fall heavily to at his side. "A whole rural area in Russia that has a market in hunting: totally shut in. Won't go anywhere alone. That'd have to be _some_ animal."

She pouts, unable to come up with something better. "Yeah…" she begins before gasping and dropping her hand to her gun.

"Chris—!"

He's already on it, spinning around and drawing his nine-oh-nine, clicking on the pin light in the process. The light from Rebecca's gun follows after his, illuminating the body of man. His arm is up, shielding his eyes, the other clutching a lantern. "Hands up!" When he doesn't comply, Chris barks at her. "Rebecca!"

There's hesitance from behind him. "Uhm, uh—_stoy_! Or, uhm, _ostanovis_!"

That works, and the man freezes. Squinting into the white light, he slowly extends his arms out to the sides. That'll have to be good enough. Chris holds up a hand and motions Rebecca forward. She quickly follows up past him, lowering her weapon as she approaches the stranger. Chris flicks his eyes around the square, but keeps his gun trained on the man.

"What's your name?" She asks him. "Your… _Zavoot_?"

"My name is Daniil."

She looks back at Chris, and they share a silent conversation.

He lowers his weapon, turning off the light as she asks, "You're the translator?" Still blinking stars from his eyes, Daniil nods. "Sorry," she smiles, looking the part, as Chris returns his gun to its holster and walks over to join them. "We were expecting you a little earlier."

He nods at that, looking sheepish. "Family did not want mine to go," he says with an embarrassed grimace. His English is hard on Chris' ears, but it's still far closer to passable than the police officer that came in with. "Had to be sneak out. Apologetic."

"It's okay," Chris tells him, nodding with a slight smile. "We're grateful for your help."

More slowly than Chris, Rebecca adds, "I'm Rebecca, and this is Chris. We're here to help you."

He nods at this, and it's a funny motion to Chris. He seems to feel it with his whole body. "_Da_, I was been told. How I am to be helping you, yes to ask please."

Rebecca pulls out her dictionary, and she and their translator set to work on explaining the situation. Chris steps back to give them some room, and makes a walk of the perimeter. Daniil is young, younger than Rebecca, but definitely an adult. _Unless he's Russian Rough_, Chris considers with a tilt of his head. He's suddenly glad there's no light; it'd be embarrassing to explain his internal dialogue having an effect on him physically. He's here to prove he's _not_ crazy, right?

Or at least that he can function while crazy. It's not like he's unsympathetic to the evaluation board's cause. He came up with a lot of the rules. As the _first_ member of the BSAA, he's logged more years than anyone. It's had an effect on him, there's no denying that. Chris has warred against walking nightmares, and has taken several home. He's lost good people, and there are lots of missions that didn't go well. He took a nasty spill and forgot everything, everyone, _Claire_, for six months. Of course that's going to raise a lot of questions—it _should_ raise a lot of questions, it _had better_ raise a lot of questions.

And he answered them to the best of his abilities. The response was less than he hoped for. 'Evaluate at a later date'. He knows what they're doing. They're hoping to block him out until he's old enough for forced retirement.

Chris isn't going to let them, though. Going behind the back of the organization he started doesn't exactly feel good, but what else can he do? He needs to get back out there. No one can do this better than him. Maybe, once, he thought he could leave it in the hands of… But that's not an option anymore. He has to return to the front lines.

His men need him.

Finishing his circle around the town square—_Someone was running fast and loose with that term_, he thinks, noting the oval-ish shape—he crosses over the old stone to check in with his small team. This place must be something else to see when things are business as usual. A village only in the ballpark of five-hundred, it's densely packed. The mud-packed, stone buildings are close together, the space between them being maybe half of an American alleyway. One shouldn't be fooled by the rustic building materials, though; the homes look well-built and sturdy. The windows are perfect squares, not oblong and awkwardly set, as well as have glass in them.

They are on a reservation of some kind, he can remember reading on the map. Maybe that has something to do with the architecture?

He's just thinking about how maybe he and Rebecca might be able to swing staying a day longer after they handle this—he could buy them something from the bakery—as he reaches them. The happy thought fades quickly as his light settles on Rebecca.

Daniil holds his lantern between the two of them to give them some reading light, but Rebecca's staring off ahead at nothing, looking like she feels queasy. Chris' brow knits together in concern, that heavy feeling in his stomach coming back.

"What's the deal, banana peel?" he asks gently but not lightly. Her eyes look to him and her head turns after. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then speaks.

"The gist is that everyone is afraid of one family." Chris' eyes drift to the left in thought, but flick back to her as she goes on. The other shoe will drop soon enough. "A sick family."

There it is.

"Ah."

"The village locked them all in their own home, which is now called the 'bad house.'" Chris hooks his fingers back onto his belt, waiting for her to go on. He's looking at their shoes now, listening to the awful news. "When someone gets 'Bad House Sick', after they fall into a coma from a fever, the police take them to the house, and lock them inside."

"Jesus," Chris breathes out. Looking up at her, he asks, "How many?"

"Seven, including the original family members."

They stand there for a moment, washed out from their bright lights. She stares up at him, professional but upset. He looks down at her, determined but apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Becky."

"I know. Me too."

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Lena Forest; Bad House<em>  
><em>09:47PM<em>

Like the rest of the farms in Tyrka, the farm house that's been re-purposed as Bad House is outside of the town proper; Daniil unhappily volunteers to take them after several minutes of being unable to successfully give them directions.

It's a tension filled walk through the woods. Fall has hit the area hard, and all the tree bark has turned grey and all the leaves that are still on the trees are brown and yellow. The floor is a mix of pretty red and gold leaves, and gnarled, brittle plants. Everything, though, is bone dry, and there is nothing they can do to keep from filling the surrounding area with the _crunch_ of leaves under foot and the _snap_ of twigs against their legs. They might as well be a marching band, announcing their presence to anything nearby.

Nothing has come to check on them, though. Chris had noticed some animals on their way into town, which is usually a pretty good indicator: life in the surrounding area tends to be the first to vacate in the wake of an outbreak. If the critters feel safe enough to stay, it's a good sign. There weren't any animals in town, as far as he could tell. No stray cats or friendly dogs. And now, here, in a forest, the only sounds are them. No crickets, birds, frogs. It's a sparse set of woods, sure, but something should be living in it.

In fact, the only thing he can hear aside from them is a stream.

"Daniil," he calls quietly. Their guide is between him and Rebecca, with her bringing up the rear.

"Yes?"

"Is there a river nearby?"

"_Da_, Lena River. Stream by us is, ah…" Chris waits for him to think of the word he needs. "River's broken piece, you know it?"

Both Chris and Rebecca chuckle; Chris can hear her snicker. "Offshoot. The word you want is offshoot."

"Off and shooting, okay."

They continue to crunch along in the dark, their flashlights cutting through and far ahead. The thin trees begin to dot out, until they reach a clearing. Specifically made for the house, he's guessing, as it stands a proud and wide two stories with several short tree stumps scattered around it. This house looks far more modern than the others, made of panels of wood with a raised porch. Aiming up, he and Rebecca trace the outline of the house with the lights on the guns.

The roof is very modern; asphalt-shingles, and the windows hold intricate panes. After telling Daniil to stay put, he and Rebecca circle the house, meeting in the back. There's a screened patio before the backdoor, but they can't reach it; the whole thing is filled with chairs to block the door. There's another door, on the side Rebecca checks out. It's not barricaded, at least not from the outside, but a jiggle of the handle does show it's locked.

They walk back to the front together.

"Do you have a key?" she asks Daniil, and Chris keeps watching the windows for any sign of movement. Lacey curtains are drawn closed across all the windows, and he wonders why so much effort was made to keep the back patio door blocked, but not the backdoor itself. Or the side and front doors, while he's wondering. The police were going into the house regularly for a little while, from the sounds of it. Maybe they blocked it off from within?

"_Nyet_. No key."

"Okay," Rebecca says with a sigh. "Wanna come back in the morning?" she asks Chris. "We can get the key from whichever officers keep bringing people here."

Still watching the house, "Yeah, maybe," he agrees with a small nod. "It's a big house, but going in with no lights and no layout could put us in a bad way."

"I agree," she adds, and then asks Daniil, "Do you know if anyone in town is Bad House Sick?"

_Oh_, Chris thinks, turning around to join the new topic of conversation. That should have been asked a little earlier. Whoops.

That doesn't have to mean anything, he reminds himself. And it certainly doesn't have to mean he's losing his touch.

Daniil thinks on it. "Not that I am in the knowing of," he answers slowly, as if he's still trying to decide. "Mina has bad cough, though. Sometimes the Sick starts with cough."

Chris nods. "Alright, let's head back in to town, and—"

"Oh _crap_. _Chris_."

He doesn't waste time looking at her, and immediately turns around, shining his light on the windows of the house. He doesn't see whatever she did, but he can take a guess; the curtain in the upper left hand window is settling into place. His sigh is half a groan.

"Damn it."

They both check the round in the chamber, and advise Daniil to stay on the stairs. He looks between them several times. "We are to go back? Yes? No?"

"_Nyet_," Rebecca tells him with a forced smile. "If we think someone needs help, we have to check. Just stay here, alright?" The young man does not look excited about the idea. "We'll be back real fast," she tells him, patting the side of his arm comfortingly. "And if you see _any_ Bad Sick people, you scream and yell for us, okay?"

"That right," Chris adds, one foot on the stairs. "We'll be here in a flash."

Daniil still looks uneasy, but with a big gulp, he nods. "Yell for flash, okay."

Leaving him at the foot of the porch, Chris and Rebecca climb the short stairs and make for the door. They're not even half way across when they hit the wall of stink. Chris clears his throat, and she brings the back of her hand up against her nose with a cough.

"_Geez_," she hisses, and he nods in agreement, reaching the door first. "Maybe they're straight dying in there."

"Could be," he says, lifting his nine-oh-nine to shine the light through the small window on the front door. There's a narrow set of stairs just past the door, and a hallway to the left of that, with two doors on the left wall before opening into what he assumes is the kitchen. Immediately after the door is an opening to the right. He thinks he's making out the corner of a couch. He can't see much up the stairs past the landing.

He's tries the doorknob, and finding it locked, he takes a moment to turn his head away and recollect his thoughts. "_Phew_," he coughs a laugh, looking at her.

"Right?" Rebecca's hand is still pressed beneath her nose. "And you wonder why I don't do this anymore."

"I owe you an apology for that," he tells her with a crooked smile. Her shoulders shake with a laugh, her eyebrows raised as if asking, 'ya think?'. "I've spent so long fighting BOWs I must have lost my immunity to zombie stench."

"Well, hopefully it's just really rank dead body stench instead."

"If wishes were horses, Becky."

"Tell me about it."

After determining the lock isn't going to give, Chris prepares to break the glass with his elbow to reach inside and undo it himself. She stops him.

"Wait, wait, use this," she says, undoing her ascot and motioning for him to hold out his arm. She unfolds it and wraps it around his arm at the elbow. Tying it off, "Don't need you getting hurt ten seconds into this."

He smirks, "Thanks."

Rebecca smiles and nods and then stands back with her weapon trained on the door. Keeping his palm flat and his fingers straight to create the most force, the glass shatters loudly against his elbow on the first try. Pulling his arm back carefully so as not to get cut, they listen. And listen. Nothing. They share a look and nod, and Chris reaches inside the broken window, feeling for the deadbolt first. It makes a heavy sound as he unlocks it, and moves onto the doorknob.

It's hard for him not to keep checking on whatever Rebecca's light happens to be shining on. At this angle, he can only see the foot of the stairs, and that small bit of the side room to the right. The rest of the stairs, the landing, and more dangerously, the back hallway are all entirely blind to him. With a much smaller _click_ the knob is undone, and Chris has to fight to not pull his arm out quickly, lest he catch himself on a shard of glass.

With Rebecca still watching the door, he removes her ascot and examines his arm. No cuts, and he hands it back to her with a small smile of thanks. She smiles back, though it's clearly forced. It's his turn to watch the door as she shakes out the fabric for any glass before wrapping it around her neck.

"I know you don't want to be here, Becky," he tells her over his shoulder. "I can go alone."

"Chris." Having finished re-knotting it, she stands beside him, with her gun trained in front of her. "Don't be stupid."

_Atta girl_, he thinks but wisely keeps to himself. She takes the doorknob and, after a shared nod, pushes it open as Chris takes point.

If the smell was bad from the outside, it's nearly staggering in here. They both make an audible sound of disgust. The stink is palpable; they can feel it on their skin and taste it on their tongues. It's like a moisture in the air, the house is _muggy_ with rot. Sweeping to the right, it was indeed a couch he saw-with what appears to be a body on it. It doesn't move. A quick check of the left reveals the hallway is still empty, and finally, nothing is on the stairs.

Rebecca steps into the living room looking down at the body. The room has a secondary opening to a dining area, which leads into the kitchen. Determining at least the dining room is empty, Chris returns to where she's leaning over the couch. The back of her hand is pressed beneath her nose again as if it's doing anything, as she uses the light on her gun to examine the body.

"Male; probably somewhere between mid-forties to sixty," she comments quietly. Chris will just have to take her word for it. He doesn't know how she can tell; the face is bloated and stretched out, the skin is yellow and blotched with purple and black colours. What's especially odd to Chris is the pose; laid up on a couch, with a pillow beneath his head, arms tucked in at the sides but hands up. Like how someone would read a book lying down or something. He assumes. Chris has never been a big 'book' guy.

He notices the worst of it right as she speaks again.

"There are bite marks."

Chris takes a moment to check both entrances to the room and finds them still empty. "What do you think happened?"

She's quite a moment, thinking as she continues to inspect the corpse. "He fell into that coma Daniil was talking about and they brought him here. Maybe he woke up, and moved to the couch to go back to sleep, or they put him here when they came in." Rebecca twists her head in a weird way, getting an odd angle on his hands. "Either way, he woke up to being eaten. I don't see any defensive wounds," she goes on shining the light from her gun on his forearms. "He was too weak to put up enough of a fight for them to bite at his hands."

Checking on both doorways again, "He didn't change."

She shakes her head slightly, still examining. "That's not entirely uncommon. Especially with earlier versions of the virus. Too much damage to the host, and the mutated cells decide not to bother." Looking at him, "That's why there were corpses at the Mansion that never moved. T was just…." She frowns, trying to think of the right word. "_Uninspired_, I guess."

"Lucky them," Chris comments and means it. If only everyone were that well off.

Finally, Rebecca leans away from the body. "I'm wondering if that's what happened to most people brought here." They begin to move toward the dining room.

"What are you thinking?" he asks quietly, noticing the ceiling is high and that a railing cuts across the open space at the second floor. It might be connected to the landing.

"The family that lived here were the first ones to get sick, right?" Rebecca is crouched, looking underneath the long table. Apparently this is where the chairs out back came from. "So they bring in someone else that's sick, who's fallen into a coma. But the coma is temporary, maybe," and she stands up. "The sick person wakes up, and goes somewhere to sleep the rest of it off so they can go home. Daniil mentioned a cough, so they're probably making a lot of noise as they sleep."

"Attracting one of the original family members that's turned."

She nods, shining her light around the room, showing smiling faces across all the photographs. "They wake up to an attack, are too weak to do anything, and die."

Chris stops before the archway leading to the kitchen. "And because of that level of trauma, the virus doesn't kick in," he finishes for her, wanting to make sure he understood. She's still looking at the photographs with slumped shoulders. He tries to bring her out of it with a legitimate question. "I thought you said that was _old_ versions of the virus, though."

"—Yeah," it takes her moment to respond but then she's looking at him. "I don't know how, but this might be connected to what's going on in Sikkim." Chris' immediate reaction is to _want_ to ask her for a how, but he refrains since she just said she doesn't have one. "The virus there is nearly T. It's not cut or spliced, as best we can tell. It's just refined."

This is news to him.

"I don't know if it's directly related to what's happening at the China-India border, but this could be the same strain."

"In the Middle-of-Nowhere, Russia?" he asks, and she shrugs lamely.

"Test run? Lost vial? Who knows." She gestures towards the kitchen. "But we have seven bodies to locate, and we've only found the one."

The kitchen is empty, but all the cupboards are open. Their best guess is that someone went searching for food, but why not close them? Maybe it was a family member before they turned; in such a weakened state, it might have been easier to leave the cupboards open than have to open and close them repeatedly.

The two closed doors reveal near identical scenes. A woman Rebecca guesses was in her thirties is in the bedroom closest to the kitchen, and a man she gauges in his seventies is nearest the front entrance. The woman is laid on her stomach, her back eaten through to the sheets. The old man is picked to bones.

Rebecca lets out a disgruntled sigh while Chris stands in the doorway, watching down the hall. "What's wrong?" he asks her.

She's crouched down, eye level with the corpse of the woman. "Well. This confirms my theory, but…"

"But?" he prompts her, leaning the center of his back against the door frame.

"_But_ we now how have a whole new set of questions." She stands up, shining the light through the hole in the woman's back. "Did they sleep with the doors open? If they didn't; who opened them? If the man out there took the couch because these doors were closed, why didn't he check them? How did the girl not notice the skeleton man? He's in the first room.

"That man is stripped of meat, but the woman and the guy on the couch aren't. What distracted the zombies? What closed the doors behind them, and most importantly, _where are they right now_?"

_thump_

The both stare at the ceiling.

"They can't climb stairs," she says quietly.

"I know," he breathes, readying his weapon and hooking around the end of the hall to reach the stairs. Rebecca's right behind him as they make their creaky way up. To their right is the railing above the dining room. Directly across from that is a room, with another farther down.

The sound came from directly above them, which means the first room is the culprit. As with the front door, they prepare for her to open it with him and his gun at the ready. Before she can reach the doorknob, though, the wood shudders, struck from the other side, giving them both a start.

Signaling that she's okay, she takes the knob, and motioning with her gun, three… two… one—

The door is thrown up, slamming into the wall; two people, a man and a woman, cry out with very familiar haunting moans. They reach out for fresh meat, their fingers bent at painful angles, and throw their weight into their shamble, stumbling forward faster than average zombies. Chris' first shot clips the woman's shoulder, spinning her around into the man, who just pushes past her. He can see milky, wide eyes, and blood stained around his mouth.

His next two shots are right on target, blowing out the back of the man's head in a red spray of bone and brain. He crumples heavily to the floor, a gurgle in his throat. The woman is already around to replace him, and Chris is quick to drop her as well. She slumps against the door frame, her skeleton holding her up at a weird angle, with a ragged hole beneath her left eye and a much messier one out the back.

Before letting Rebecca examine them, he pushes the woman over with his shoe to ensure she's dead. She flops to the floor and remains still.

Chris checks his rounds. "How the hell did they get up here?"

"That is an excellent question," is all she says, once again using her gun's light to assist her. "And who closed the door."

Deciding to leave her to her science stuff, Chris pops his clip back in and starts down the hall towards the other door. Listening, he can't hear anything on the other side. _The first room was easy enough_, he thinks, and throws open the door alone.

He finds an empty room. Empty of people and zombies, he means. It's very well-lived in. After checking the closet and under the bed, he calls, "Clear!" to which there is a distracted reply of, 'cool'. Smirking at that, Chris returns to surveying the room.

It looks like it used to be a study someone turned into a refuge. There are blankets piled up beneath the desk, and wrappers and empty cans. A can opener is on the desk. Suddenly the state of the kitchen makes sense. The cupboards were probably noisy, so someone opened them all to come back to later. He taps his earpiece.

"Becky, I don't think everyone here was infected."

There's a delay, and then, "_Why's that?_"

"This last room looks like a safe haven of some kind." He glances around again. "Found all the food from the kitchen, blankets, stuff…" He crouches next to a stack of magazines next to the makeshift bed. Only they're not magazines, they're comics. "…I think whoever was hiding in here was a kid."

An even longer pause. "_The dining room was mostly pictures of a boy._" And then, "_You think that's who was closing the doors?_"

"Maybe," he nods, even though she can't see it. "Maybe he was even telling the new people where to sleep."

"_And possibly leading his mom and dad away from the victims? Jesus_."

"So where are you, buddy?" he asks to the room. Rebecca doesn't say anything.

And then she screams.

Chris launches out of the room so quickly he slams into the wall before barreling into the bedroom he left her in. He nearly runs her over on her way out. "He was in the closet!" she says loudly, trying to push past him. "Chris, it's the kid, the kid!"

Now Daniil is yelling the word 'flash' as they reach the stairs.

"Oh my God, c'mon c'mon!"

"I am!" he says quickly, rushing out the open door. Daniil is holding his lantern up, out in the yard and pointing past the house.

"The barn! Barn!"

"Where!" Chris barks, jumping from the porch to the grass. "Show us!"

"Okay!"

Sprinting around the back of the house through another group of trees small enough to be a thicket, they come to a very open area. And there's the barn, with a door bouncing closed. It's tall and imposing in the dark, their flashlights crisscrossing along its broad front helping the image.

Chris is ahead of Rebecca, and she asks, "Daniil, do you know who that is?" He breathes heavily as he walks next to her. "Daniil," she tries again, "who is the boy?"

"_Ya_… _Ya nee_…" He shakes his head. "Maybe, maybe Varlam? Family has… boy… and girl." He's still struggling with his breath. "Girl is oldest… than boy."

She grabs the large iron handle and pulls on the door, walking backwards to open it. Chris steps inside, aiming his light around quickly, checking the corners beside him and up above. Sharp farming equipment hangs overhead, long loops tied to the rafters holding it all in place. The smell of wet hay is thick, but it's a welcome change from the miasma in the house.

"Here," he announces, finding the boy in the farther corner, crouched and terrified. "Daniil," he calls over his shoulder. "I need you to talk to him, alright?"

So he does. Daniil confirms with the boy his name is Varlam, and tells him the Americans are here to help. The boy talks about how his parents became scary one day, and that he had to hide and trick them. Varlam moves further into the barn to wave at Chris and start playing with straw, and Rebecca tells Daniil to wait outside. Chris smiles at the kid while Rebecca pats his head before standing.

"His parents had bite marks," she tells Chris, balling up some gauze to re-pocket. "They're not where this started."

Valram smiles a toothy grin, with one missing, and Chris waves. "So where's Patient Zero?"

Buttoning the pocket closed, Rebecca _hm_'s. "Daniil _did_ mention a sister, and there was no one else in the house."

"That we saw," Chris amends, and she tips her head in acknowledgement. Its' a good idea as any, all the same. "You think that's how the community started getting sick?" he asks, folding his arms. "Sister brings it home, then heads to town?" She doesn't answer him, staring sadly at the boy. "Becky?"

Quietly, so Daniil can't hear, "He's bit."

"No." Chris can't keep the anguish from twisting up his face. "_No_."

"Yeah," she says with a deep breath. "I'm guessing in leading his parents back to their room, he couldn't get out. Got bit, and hid." Her voice is very strained. "It was still bleeding until recently. Within the last couple hours."

Chris wants to punch something. "We could have saved him, if we got here sooner."

She doesn't say anything, just hugs herself with one arm and covers her mouth with her other hand.

Feeling weird and sick, Chris heads over to Varlam, kneeling down in front of him. "Hi there."

"_Preevyet_."

He notices where Rebecca wrapped up the kid's arm, but the infection has spread through the limb, blue veins very dark in waxy skin. He can see blood around his teeth from inflamed gums, and Valram's stare is shiny. The blond hair on top of his head is damp with sweat, and his mouth-breathing rattles his tiny body. Yet, there he sits, maybe not even eight, no idea that he's doomed.

"_Amerikanskaya_," the little guy points at Chris. When Chris nods, he adds, "John McClane," and Chris laughs.

"Yeah, buddy, like John McClane." He pulls out a KitKat from one of the pockets on his tactical belt, and begins to unwrap it. "Ever had one of these, buddy?" Valram _oo_'s at the bright wrapper, and takes the bar Chris offers him.

"You eat it," he tells him, breaking off another piece. "You eat—like with your mouth." Chris takes a bite, and Valram does the same.

"_Shokolad_!" The remainder of it is gone immediately,so Chris gives him the rest of the candy, and Valram holds up a sticky hand for a high five. Chris can feel himself near tears, but keeps it together and lets the boy slap his small hand against Chris' palm. Chris' thick paw dwarfs the kids', and he closes his fingers around it, holding Valram's hand for a moment. Valram rasps a giggle at him.

It takes a great amount of effort to let him go, but Chris does and stands. The boy smiles up at him as he does so, chocolate and a bit of blood smeared on his face.

Rebecca has both of her hands over her mouth, trying not to cry. Chris pats him on the head as he moves behind him ("Good boy," he tells him with a thick voice), Valram focusing happily on his treat—his last meal. As Chris aims the gun at the back of his tiny, tiny blonde head, Rebecca can neither hold the tears back nor watch anymore.

With her back to them both—

_Bang_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: We're finally getting into the thick of it! Judging from the large amount of hits this story has, lots of you folks are checking back every update. And that's awesome! While I'm not in this for the reviews business, it would be nice to know what any of you are thinking. At just over five-hundred hits (that's more than a hundred per chapter!), someone somewhere must have formed an opinion! Statistically speaking, mind you. Baby, you're a firework. We update Tuesdays.<strong>


	6. chapter 5: alekhine's gun

**Author's Note: My favourite chapter to write so far.**

* * *

><p>chapter five<p>

**alekhine's gun**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em>al-YEHK-eens, guhn/  
>A formation in which a queen backs up two rooks on the same file<em>

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>13 September<em>  
><em>Sofitel Cairo El Gezirah Hotel; Prestige Suite<em>  
><em>01:32 AM<em>

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Leon glares into the sitting area.

_What_ is he doing? This is the hotel on the card Ada had given him, a room already in his name. She had no doubt he'd follow the instructions and check in. And _why_? Maybe, _maybe_ he would have gone along in the dark at her suggestion that the truth would be waiting. That was all before China, though. Before China, and that video tape in the bowels of a church in Tall Oaks. Is that how she survived? Is that how she's _been_ surviving? Chris saw her die (cause of death still a mystery to Leon by choice), and then there she was; right as rain. In a helicopter.

And what about Raccoon City? Marvin and Ben will always have a place in his nightmares, but _nothing_ haunted Leon quite like failing Ada. It hadn't been enough she'd been shish kabobbed, flayed and barbecued. Then her life literally slipped through his fingers as he was unable to hold on, both their blood making their grips slick. _Her hand slid out of his, one excruciating centimeter at a time before—before—_

With a sharp sigh, Leon shakes himself from the memory. It won't do him good to be thinking about something like that now. It's bad enough Ada actually gets away with murder; if he starts feeling a fresh wave of guilt, he'll just have to change his name to 'DOORMAT'.

_taptaptaptap_

The sound comes from his right, and Leon looks out at the closed sliding door to his balcony to find a smiling Ada Wong tapping her nails on the glass. With a start, he slides off the comforter and takes long strides to cross the room to unlock the door.

"Hell—_oh_!" He cuts off her greeting by yanking her inside, looking around past her to see if any guests had noticed. "Whoa, Officer," she teases from behind him, straightening her sleeve. "Ease up on that excessive force."

There doesn't appear to be anyone else outside. Still, a few lights are on. "What if someone saw you?" he chides, the door clicking closed.

She scoffs. "Don't insult me, Leon." He begins pulling at the curtains. "I'm a professional." All that gets her is a critical look from over his shoulder. With an amused sigh, she crosses her arms and starts walking into the room. "You really think this is the first time I've had to enter a hotel room from the balcony?"

"What kind of life are you living," he mutters, mulling her statement over as he finishes blocking out the door with a final tug of the curtain. Or, rather; _lives_. How many Adas are there? Was this the one he met in Raccoon? In Spain? Maybe he's never met the same one twice. Or was that awful thing on the tape how she… rejuvenates? Might explain why she ages at a glacial pace. When Leon looked into it, that John guy was in his thirties, so Ada couldn't have been far from that. That'd put her at least into her early forties, but she's barely aged since he met her in that garage. Paler, but not much else. Was she even human? Was she _ever_?

Her answer is airy and not at all serious. "One that would blow your boy scout mind. Ooh!" Ada stops at the dining table, pulling out a chair. "Chocolates." She takes a seat and plucks up a foil wrapped truffle from the expense box. Waving it around before beginning to peel it, "I trust you won't mind."

All those questions and more, he might never work up the nerve to ask. Stalking past her to take a heavy seat at the end of the table, he shakes his head with a tight smile. "Knock yourself out."

And so she does. Quietly, the crinkle of the wrappers being removed seems to be the only thing to sit on top of the fat silence between them. If they're both uneasy Ada makes no show of it. Leon, on the other hand, has to struggle not to stand up and pace several times over. Instead, he settles for playing with the band of his watch, all the while forcing his eyes anywhere else when they continue to wander to her.

Despite the straight back of the chair, Ada manages to longue in it; casually propping an elbow on the table, leaning over her growing pile of wrappers, legs crossed at the knee. Her hair's gotten longer—long enough that it's held up and back by a comb, with her bangs swept to the side. He could count each and every stray hair that rests against her pale skin. Pale, pale skin. _When did _that_ start_, he wonders. When did she stop living her life outside? The industrial lights of the Raccoon City labs couldn't wash out her tan, where he and Claire looked sick and ghostly. Even in Spain he'd noticed the changes: hair styled but not really cared for; an almost concerning weight loss, and; a stare that wasn't really looking at anything.

Even when she was bleeding out on that catwalk, her eyes had more life than he's seen in all the years since. Maybe Leon failed her in more ways than he realized—

"Not at all."

He blinks, realizes he was staring, and flushes. Coughing to clear his throat, Leon draws himself up in his embarrassment, and sets his sight elsewhere. "How do you mean," he asks lamely, ultimately deciding that the candle wear on the table is the most interesting thing to focus on. _She hasn't developed mind reading, has she—_

"Just as I said," is her patient response. Like a parent to a child. "Anyway, eat one." Her pretty red nails stop picking at her fourth truffle to nudge the box in his direction. He makes no move to accept the gesture, though his eyes do snap to chocolates. "Come on," she encourages slyly, tilting her head with a smirk. "Don't make me eat them all by myself. It won't due for my self-esteem."

"Ada, you said you had information to help me find Sherry."

She holds out the partially unwrapped candy to him. "Here. I started this one for you."

"Ada—"

"In a minute, Leon." She gestures again with the candy and he holds up his hand to deny it. "I just got here. Besides, we're waiting on someone, aren't we?"

His hand stills in the air before he slowly lowers it. "How did you know?"

She _tsk_'s him, looking at him from under her bangs. "I _just told you_ I'm a professional, Leon." Back to a clearly more important matter, she waves the chocolate around in a comically tempting motion. Leon huffs a laugh, and reaches for the box instead.

"I'll get my own, thanks." She shrugs, bringing the treat back to her side of the table.

"Suit yourself."

This time, the silence isn't so unbearable. That may be in part due to the surprising amount of concentration freeing the truffle takes. Leon's understandably short nails are a poor tool for the job, and it takes several attempts of turning the near-ball over before he can find an edge willing to give.

"So."

The smirk at his triumph falls away as she speaks, and Leon turns to look at her.

"So?"

"_So_," and she nods once, deep enough to be a bow, working on her seventh chocolate. "How are things?"

He can do little else aside from stare at her dumbly, and with a tone to match, "Things."

"Yes, Officer. _Things_." Ada stops to flick at the piece of gold aluminum that has apparently welded itself to her nail. Setting down the chocolate to focus on her task, she continues, "How have you _been_?"

_At a total loss with _you_—more than usual_, his mind grumbles. Or pouts, but since no one can hear it, he's not fessing up. "Fine."

"No," and the scrap of wrapper is finally pealed from her nail polish. "Fine is my legs in these pants." She smiles slightly at his chuckle. "How has your life been? What have you been doing?" Before he can answer; "Still seeing that Susanna girl?"

The chocolate was nearly to his mouth and Leon almost drops it at her question. With some fumbling, he catches it. "How do you know that?" Ada makes no move to answer him, and her alluring mystery quickly slides down the scale to frustrating. "Ada, how could you _possibly_ know something like that?"

She's doing that thing where she's facing him but refusing eye contact. He can't recall her doing that in Raccoon, but he knows it happened in Spain. She did it _all the infuriating Goddamn time_, and while he'll sometimes knowingly play her games, this isn't a subject Leon's willing to tolerate. He's always been tragic at keeping a healthy balance between his personal life and his professional one, but the two _never _mix. For all the good and bad that's done, he _likes _it that way. However much Ada and his encounters with her have impacted his life as a whole, her place is a wiggly spot under _Professional_.

Ada stuns him with her flipped interpretation.

"We're _friends_, Leon." Ada's looking out the window now. The city's too bright to see any stars, but the lights down below look nice. "We might never go to brunch," and despite his flare of anger, there's small smirk at that, "but I look in on you from time to time." He doesn't know what to say to that, and stays quite. Ada makes an elegant shrug and finally looks at him. She's wearing one of those faces that's clearly a mask, but there's something nearly soft in her stare. "We have scary jobs, Leon. I like knowing you're doing alright out there."

He _definitely_ doesn't know what to say to that. This whole thing is rubbing him wrong, from the instructions to come here, to the conversation they're having now. He's torn up over it in a weird way, between how absolutely invasive this confession is (who is she talking to that knows about his personal life? Who in his small circle of friends is her mole?), and the thought and feelings behind it. What she's telling him is absolutely wrong and does not remotely sit well with him. On the other hand, this is Ada saying she cares, that she worries.

_Because we're friends._

Leon's always been incredibly hesitant to label their… _relationship_. He's never had any idea what they've ever been, and the few people who know about it absolutely hate that they have it—whatever 'It' is. He's been cautious to call her a 'friend', since he's always associated the word with people whom he can actually _count on_; whom he likes most of the time. _Friends, huh?_ Him and Ada are friends. Alright. Okay. He's heard of worse things.

So instead of chastising her or demanding further explanation, Leon opts to do what he's always done through the course of their friendship: forgive her her trespasses and just move along.

"No," he finally tells her, feeling his anger slip away at her honesty. "Not for a few months now."

If she notices his inner struggle over any of this, she isn't interested in it. Instead, she nods that deep nod and moves further back into her chair. Pulling one leg up to dig her heel in the upholstery, Ada laces her fingers and rests her hands on top of that knee. "Good. I didn't like her."

"Is that right?" he laughs, though it's more in disbelief.

"Such a snobby girl," she goes on with a shrug. "And not the charming kind of snobby I am." The tension in the air isn't gone, but it's well within manageable for him. Leon relaxes in to his own chair. Not nearly as dramatically as Ada, one leg is bent at the knee and close to the chair, while the other is stretched out in front of him. His hands tap idly on ends of the armrest. "I didn't like her for you."

The tapping stops. "Who do you like for me?"

Her eyes flick to his instantly. It's mostly a legitimate question; if she knows so much about his life, and if she knows him so well, just which woman would be a good fit. There's another part of it, though, that's different from that. That small bit is the piece they hear the loudest: a challenge. Something of a taunt; calling her out to nominate herself. A challenge Leon could very easily see himself being terrified of if she were to rise to it. Would the thrill outweigh the fear?

His lips part to say—well, he doesn't know. And neither will anyone else, because it's only when he takes in a breath to speak that he can finally hear the knocking on the door over his heartbeat.

"Whom." He stares at her when she corrects him, somewhat dazed. "_Whom_ do I like for you."

_Knock knock knock_

He swallows (when did that lump get there?) and then, "Then, whom do you like for me?"

_Knock knocknockknockknock knock knock_

Leon looks away first, and stands to get the door.

"Whom indeed," is heard behind him, as well of the sound of her returning to the chocolates.

His hands shake a bit as he swings open the door, feeling a touch like he just tried to step in front of a train, and the sheepish smile of Claire Redfield does him something close to a world of good. "Hey, sorry," she says quietly, stepping into the room from the hushed hallway. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Valid question, as it's two in the morning, but he works quickly to assure her she hadn't. "No way. I'm still on East Coast time. Just got here a day ago." She's faced away from him, dropping a dark blue duffle bag onto the couch, a back pack still slung over her shoulder. Her hair's pulled back in her trademark ponytail, with her love of denim ever present; with the back pack also on the couch, she begins shrugging off a black jean jacket that's cut short at the sides, her boot cut jeans strained and worn at the knees, with similar wearing along her thighs and especially at the pockets. Interestingly, they're _white_, which is an especially brave choice for someone who gets into messes nearly as often as Leon—and never on purpose.

"Well, in that case, I retract my apology," she teases, straightening what must be two camisoles; the top one is an orange that's almost red (or a red that's almost orange, Leon's never known how that worked), with the one beneath it white. Her boots look heavy to Leon and he can't image they're great for airport travel.

"Never thought you meant it," he counters, turning back to the door to ensure the electric lock has taken.

"Good, because I never do." Tossing her jacket on to the couch, "Really, though. I thought I'd at least get here by midnight. Turns out flights to Egypt from LA take a little bit."

Leon walks past her to lead them further into the suite. The sitting area is floor level, and everything else is on a platform; it takes two steps to get up into the bedroom, dining area and spare room, with an entrance to a bathroom from each bed. As he leads her, "I'm sorry it had to be here. But thank you for coming."

"Oh God, Leon; of course," she admonishes, putting a hand on his arm. He stops just past the divider that separates the main area and the bedroom, with the dining table closer to the windows. "It's for Sherry; I'll do anything."

They share a smile, though Claire's freezes before crashing into a frown as they begin to step up towards the table. "_What_—" Her tone is cold enough to send a shiver down his spine. "—_Is __**she **__doing here_?"

Ada's wadding up all her foils. "Leon and I were discussing whom he should date next."

He gapes at Ada.

"_Wow_," and how far from impressed Claire's tone is. "Well, _congratulations_, Leon. I'm leaving now." Claire is _quick_; Leon has to nearly jump to get in front of the door to block her exit. "Move, or so help me—"

"Claire, listen—"

"_What_ on God's green Earth does this have to do with _Sherry_?"

"I told you I was brought information regarding her whereabouts."

"Yeah—from a reliable source. _**That**_—" Claire throws her bags down to point at Ada. "—is _**not**_ a reliable source."

"She can help us, Claire. You _said_ you'd do anything for Sherry."

"I can't help her if I _die_."

"Ada wouldn't—"

"Oh, but wouldn't she?" They're standing close now, her hand no longer on the door, and Leon considers it a small victory. Their voices have gotten odd and quiet, harsh whispers, as if they can have this conversation without Ada hearing. She has gone to wash her hands in the master bath, though. "Wouldn't she, Leon? Wouldn't she _just_. She shot you; stabbed you; murdered Chris' entire team—"

"Ada did not do those things," he tells her firmly.

Claire rolls her eyes so theatrically her whole body sways with the motion.

"_Jesus_, Leon." Her palm rests against her eyes, and they begin talking over each other.

"That's a lot of hearsay, Claire and—"

"Hearsay! Chris _saw_ it—"

"—I was there for two of things, Chris _one_ of those thing—"

"Chris isn't biased _in_ her favour—"

"—and you were there for exactly _zero_—"

"The amount of _denial_ you are in is just—"

"—zero times, and I am _not_ in denial—"

"—unreal and _sad_," she finishes, placing her hands on his chest, as if she were going to press the truth into him.

"—I am _not_ in denial," he insists.

Earlier, when Leon had been thinking about the people that hate his history with Ada, he might as well had just been thinking about the Redfields. They're the ones that hate it the most, and Claire hates it the loudest. From the very second Claire was made aware of Ada Wong, her bullshit meter shot to maximum, and her suspicions and dislike for the woman have only grown over the years. It certainly did not help that near every time Leon crosses paths with her, he sustains some kind of injury. Claire has never had any tolerance for the spy and her antics; as far as the youngest Redfield is concerned, Ada Wong has been lying since the day they met her and she hasn't stopped since.

And, that might be sort of true, but… Even so…

"You're both right."

They look across the room to find Ada has situated herself quite comfortably into the large and lone chair opposite of them. Her legs are crossed at the knee with her hands sitting comfortably entwined on her stomach. The seat is for someone much larger and looks like it could easily be absorbing her, but she still maintains an odd sense of grace. Like she won't sink any further in by choice.

With her eyes on him, "I did stab you, Leon." His sigh is disgruntled and Claire smacks the back of her hand against his chest with a 'see?'. "Though in my defense, he _was_ trying to kill me."

"Well, about ti—_ow_!" Her strangely impressed tone annoys him, and Leon returns her light smack with a bit more force against her arm.

Again to Claire, "And I didn't shoot him."

"Oh you're _right_," Claire concedes with acidic sarcasm. The hand that had been rubbing where Leon whacked her arm points at Ada for emphasis. "He just caught a bullet with _your name on it_, while Annette was trying to gun _you_ down."

Ada nods. "Mmhm. So I didn't shoot him."

How dangerous this situation really is, is finally beginning to dawn on Leon as Claire lets out what is unmistakably but still unbelievably a growl. "And Chris' team?"

"Oh," and Ada tips her heads to side with a click of her tongue. "That's a bit more complicated."

Claire's glare could melt glass. "_Why don't you try me_."

"_An_ Ada Wong killed your brother's team." _Oh God_, is all that circles around Leon's brain. _Don't do this now, I still don't have a handle on it_. Which, really, all things considered... "Just not—" and Ada gestures to herself with both her hands, "—_this _Ada Wong."

"_Excuse me_?"

Claire and Leon blink at each other, realizing they asked the same question.

"Like I said," Ada shrugs from deep within the chair, "Complicated. But no less true."

Claire faces him, whirling a fist in frustration, and there is a very scary moment where he thinks she's going to straight out slug him. Thankfully, she tosses it out to point at Ada instead. "This? _This_ is proving my point, Leon!" He wisely says nothing. His hands are held up in a small surrender, because he doesn't know what else to do. Claire's right; dealing with Ada is always a roll of the dice, but if she says she can help them find Sherry then he knows that she can. He isn't going to tell her _leave_.

"The woman is a completely sideways snake!" Claire could have cursed the last word. "She's not here to help us; why ever she's giving you information, it's to help her." She turns that mean Redfield glare unto Ada, who's at least taken aback enough to raise her eyebrows up into her bangs. "Even when you're putting yourself last, you're putting yourself first."

"Claire—" he tries pointlessly.

"Shut up!" He's sorry he tried, with that look trained back on him. "And you _let_ her! You let this happen. For God's sake Leon—"

"What is _wrong_ with you, she's hear to _help_ us—"

"Oh, _you_ obviously _need _help!"

Their height difference is unkind to both their necks, but it doesn't stop them from glaring at each other. Though with how ferocious Claire can get, Leon's sure she'd rather bite him.

"What does that even _mean_?!"

"It means I think you're _nuts_! For trusting her!"

"I've trusted Ada for a long time, and—"

"And what, _exactly_, has that gotten you?"

Unfortunately for the rest of the world, the Redfields have a bite as bad as their bark. They can both see how deep that cut and look away from each other. Leon huffs a sigh, directing his waning glare towards the wall; Claire turns away, one hand on her hip with the other over her eyes.

"Listen to her, Leon."

They look towards Ada quickly, his eyebrows up and Claire's drawn down, but both are surprised.

"You're right, Claire" Ada says more pointedly. "I don't do things out of the goodness of my heart. I am very, very self-serving. That's why you can believe me right now." The heat from Claire's anger has simmered, their curiosity with Ada distracting them both from each other. "It _is_ in my best interest to reunite you with Sherry. So that's what I'm going to do."

In a weird twist, this confession seems to put Claire at ease, with the tension in her shoulders visibly coming undone. Whereas Leon is holding his breath specifically to keep from expressing his opinion about where this conversation has gone. It's in his nature to give people the benefit of the doubt, Ada more so after everything they've been through, and what she's saying now doesn't sit well with him.

"Something we can agree on." While Claire is still very unhappy about the situation, she does seem to like what Ada's saying now. Leon wonders if she's feeling some kind of validation for all the years she spent disliking the woman. The idea is disappointing; Leon's admiration for Claire has always focused on her compassion more than any other feat, and it always bothers him when she withholds it from someone. Even (especially?) if that someone is the infamous Ada Wong.

"You can trust me that far."

"But not much further."

"Oh no," Ada agrees, leaning forward without a struggle in the big chair. "I mean, you _could_. I wouldn't recommend it." Ada tips her head in some kind of acknowledgement. "You're smart, Claire. Smart people doesn't trust me."

_What is happening here?_ he wonders, feeling like a spectator. At best guess, he's watching a ceasefire being signed between the two women. Ada's been infuriating for much of the night because she's always been difficult by choice. He's developed some kind of a tolerance for that over the years. What's frustrating Leon is Claire. He might make a point of offering the benefit of the doubt, but Claire can straight up find the _goodness_ in people. Which is why he's so annoyed that she won't even try with Ada.

And afraid that she _did_ but couldn't find anything.

"So what do you know?" Her tone isn't sarcastic; Claire's asking, really asking. It's honest and tired, and Leon's reminded who's suffered the most since Sherry's disappearance. He and Chris are thrivers; stick them in bad situations and they do well. Claire's a survivor; she just gets by. She can make it through anything, but she'll be a little worse for it. She became a shield instead of sword to avoid the kind of terror her brother sprints head long at. It hasn't worked out much in practice. Leon and Claire only ever seem to see each other when the sky is falling.

Before he realizes it, Leon's placed a hand on her shoulder and gives a comforting squeeze. Claire looks about as surprised as he feels. Still, she gives him a worn out but thankful smile, placing a hand over his. This moment feels good, for once things between them aren't strained, and he wonders how long it'll last because it's felt like ages—

"First: food."

Claire's hand still over his, they look across the room at Ada, whose head is hidden behind a room service menu she's produced from seemingly nowhere. "Let's take a breather and eat. Then I'll say what I came to say."

As she talks, Claire looks up at him, mouthing 'sorry'. He gives a small smile back as his own apology.

Lowering the menu, Ada watches the exchange.

"Unless I should be _going out_ to eat."

The both of them flush and withdraw.

"As _if_."

"Ada; don't."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: What gigantic story would be complete without some ship-teasing? Not a fan fiction one, that's for sure. Anyway, Claire finally hits the scene! It feels like she shows up so late for a main character. No worries; she's not going anywhere. Seems like my side of Washington state is gonna be bone dry for Christmas. Hope your scenery is to your liking. And drop a review before you leave! I want to know your thoughts, my people. We update Tuesdays.<strong>


	7. chapter 6: threat

**Author's Note: Never again will I start a story near the holidays. It doesn't matter how many chapters ahead I've written, if I can't get to the ding dong damn computer to upload them.**

* * *

><p>chapter six<p>

**threat**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em>THret/_  
><em>a plan or move that, if left unattended, would result in an immediate depreciation of the opponent's position<em>

_Alexandria, Egypt_  
><em>22 July<em>  
><em>Cairo-Alexandria Highway<em>  
><em>11:32 PM<em>

Sherry's learned several things over the last couple of hours.

The biggest of which is that secrecy matters a _lot _to the Concerned Individual. "We're going to see the Professor," the mystery guy tells her, slumped comfortably in the backseat of the car. The man driving them is loaded with heavy protective gear and his face his hidden.

" 'Professor'?" she asks carefully, looking anywhere but the windows. The guy in the gear had driven them from the plane to a jet strip, and they boarded the very expensive plane waiting for them. Where, despite her better efforts, she fell back asleep. In some kind of strange kindness, they let her rest; when Sherry finally roused, she learned they had landed an hour before.

From India to Egypt, she realizes during this car ride. Mysterious Guy is on the back passenger side, slouched deeply, with a knee drawn up and pressing into the seat in front of him. That's probably why she's behind the driver; so his knee isn't digging into the other man's back.

Her hands are clasped in her lap, alternating applying pressure to her knuckles nervously.

"Yeah," he answers her distantly, playing with his earring again as he stares out the window. "Professor Plum."

Her features scrunch up in aggressive disbelief. " '_Professor Plum_'?"

He scoffs, turning away from the window, and his hand leaves his earring to rest on his stomach. "Must have missed the report where G turns someone into a parrot."

"Shut up," she hisses at him, hitting him lightly with the back of her hand. He just laughs at her. Despite being a bit annoyed by him, Sherry definitely prefers this version of the Mysterious Guy. The other one was a lot more frightening and she can't explain why. Something about him just made her feel like she's playing with fire. She has no interest in being burned.

"I _meant_," she goes on coolly, adjusting her scarf with a scowl, "is that his real name?"

"Nope."

She looks at him then, waiting for an explanation. He smiles at her for a long moment before deciding to give her one. "Everyone's got a title," he tells her, twisting in his seat to look at her. Sitting like that, he reminds her of how she used to get into weird positions in the back of her parents' SUV. Scrunched up like an accordion, Sherry's a little mystified by how comfortable he looks.

"Codename isn't the right word, but." He gives a liquid shrug. "Our concerned citizen, _Mr Body_, he hires the best of the best. The best, though," he clicks his tongue with a tilt of head. "They're so good 'cause they watch out for themselves. Mr Body is interested in protecting himself and his investments, so. One of his precautions is that no one knows each other's names."

"Seems paranoid."

He shrugs again. "It didn't start like that. Someone had to go and ruin it for the rest of us."

Sherry's quiet a moment, thinking about that. Mysterious Guy goes back to watching the solid black outside the windows. It's terrifyingly dark out there. There are no lights, aside from other cars, and a small peek out the window earlier had been a mistake; it was like they're driving in a void, there's no seeing the road.

"You know _my_ name."

He takes a deep breath through his nose and nods at that, turning towards her again. "Only because Mr Body isn't available to come himself right now. No one else knows." He gestures to the driver. "Haven't said your name once, have I?" He pushes himself up then, stretching his back in the spacious car (a Bentley maybe?). Crossing his legs so an ankle is resting on the other knee, he lifts his arms to cross them behind his head. How does he look so comfortable in such odd situations? Now re-situated, he goes on:

"Everyone will know you as Ms Peacock."

There's a clear theme developing here. She recognizes the names from the culture sensation _Clue_. Does that mean this 'Mr Body' likes to play games? _He's certainly into mysteries_, she thinks, eyeing the guy before her. What a representative to send. Most of the time he's been easy to talk to, maybe even a bit charming (no part of her wants to admit), but other times… When something settles in behind his eyes, the strain Sherry feels is almost unreal. It's like the pressure in the air changes, and the unknown of what he's capable of is frightening—

"Or Ms Pea, since I like to shorten them," he announces suddenly. It startles her from her thoughts. "Or—hey, I could call you sweet pea." The arm closest to her moves from behind his head to behind hers, stretching to lay behind her head rest. It's smooth and cool, and Sherry over-emphasizes her scowl to make up for the blushing.

"_I_," she drags the word out, straightening her shirt to look busy. "Would rather just hear what _your_ special name is."

"Too late; I've decided. But since you asked…" There. Right there. Looking in him in the eyes, she can practically _see_ something sliding into place behind them. Like a closing shutter, blocking out the light. She's suddenly very aware of how small the car is, and she wants to see Jake. "Mr Green."

Trying to break the (what is apparently only uncomfortable to her) tension, she jerks her head towards the driver. "A-and him?"

_Click_. Just like that, the bright lights are back in his eyes like the shutter's been drawn back, and he leans back to his side of the car happily.

"He's the combo breaker."

She just stares at Mr Green.

"His name is HUNK."

_Alexandria, Egypt_  
><em>22 July<em>  
><em>Island of Pharos; private residence<em>  
><em>00:17 AM<em>

Sherry suddenly hates the codename rule.

The rest of the car ride, she began to rationalize why something like that can be beneficial to her. No one she meets will know her, and everyone will be none-the-wiser about why Mr Body wants her on his… team thing. She can be a person around them, just some nobody.

But now, as Green introduces her to Professor Plum, she wants to scream and demand driver's licenses.

She _knows_ him. She doesn't know what from, but they've_ met_. Everything about the Professor is familiar; the glasses, his clipped British accent—how he's coated in silver, from his suit to his eyes to his perfectly combed back hair. Sherry doesn't think he was one of the doctors that worked for the government, none of them are allowed personal attire and his whole ensemble resonates with her on some level. Sherry cannot name a time or a place, but this man was a part of her life at some point.

That takes a back seat though, when she grabs Green's arm as the Professor advises her they can go to the laboratory now or tomorrow, as a courtesy for the late hour.

"You said no more experiments," she reminds him, displeased with her anxious tone but yet too anxious to care.

He places his hand over hers with a smile. "It's okay," he assures her.

"Oh, you misunderstand me," the Professor insists quickly, trying to ease her fears. She looks at him, still holding onto Green. "These are merely _tests_: blood levels; vitals; the like. A health check," he tells her with a quirked smile. "It would appear the journey was wearying. Why don't we reconvene after breakfast?"

His suggestion seems reasonable, but she doesn't let go of Green. It's not that he makes her feel particularly safe, but he's the only person Sherry's built any kind of rapport with. And she still has yet to meet her gracious host. "Where's Mr Body?" she asks, stepping closer to Green. "Is he here?" Green seems to like the idea of looking in charge, and he's flirted with her a few times. Maybe if she plays up the doe-eyed angle, she could get something out of him? Not that it'll be a stretch to look nervous and unaware in this situation.

She can see him lift himself up a bit, a slight puff to his chest with the ego boost. She guessed right. "He's unavailable, like I said," he tells her, removing her hand from his arm, but then putting that arm around her shoulders. "He will be soon though, right?" he asks the Professor.

There's some mild amusement on the older man's face, and Sherry could flush with embarrassment at what he must be thinking of her and Green. "With any luck."_ That's_ an odd answer, and Sherry nearly raises her eyebrows. "Mrs White is leaving tomorrow. After breakfast, which has now come up again." He nods towards the door they came through. "Surely a sign to wait until tomorrow."

"Surely," Green agrees with a nod of his own. "Let's do that."

Sherry only nods, unsure of why she should argue against that. _At least there's another woman here_, she thinks with some small relief. There hasn't been another girl around since she passed the flight attendant that drugged her on the way out. In fact, following the cast of _Clue_, there should be at least two other girls aside from Sherry.

"Wonderful. Until breakfast." The Professor places both of his hands in his grey blazer's pockets, making no move to join them. Apparently his room isn't wherever Green is taking her. "And Ms Peacock," he adds, looking at her with some apology behind those clean lenses, "I am _truly_ sorry I startled you." She blinks at the sincerity. "I'll look to be more mindful in the future."

"It's okay!" she blurts out, suddenly embarrassed by the apology. She knows this man, she just can't remember how, and she doesn't want to get off on the wrong foot. "I'm just nervous, I think."

"Oh, indeed," he breaths with a short chuckle. "I can tell you, there are worst things to be."

Mr Green yawns then, putting the back of his free hand against his mouth. "That's cool, let's talk about it later."

"Ah, yes, of course." The Professor turns smoothly on his heel, and offers her a little wave with some waggle his fingers. "Good night."

"Good night."

" 'Night, Prof."

As the Professor walks away, Green steers them in the opposite direction. "Let's got check out your room, sweet pea."

"Okay." Despite the drugs, after all that sleeping, Sherry is wide awake. She'll feign some more exhaustion, and after Green leaves, it'll be time to start poking around. It sounds like she'll have until breakfast to get a better grasp of the situation. She doesn't know when that is, so she had best make the early hours count.

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>13 September<em>  
><em>Sofitel Cairo El Gezirah Hotel; Prestige Suite<em>  
><em>03:25 AM<em>

Claire can feel the jetlag starting to set in.

Not that something like that can keep her from the steak fries on her plate. Both she and Leon ordered some kind of jalapeño burger; hers with the works sans pickles, where Leon adds nothing but ("_Gross_." "You don't _like_ pickles?" "No, Leon, because I _want_ to go to Heaven when I die."), and both their orders come with a heaping share of fries that get their own _plates_. Ada's using a long, dainty spoon to chip away at a parfait.

People she never expected to be sharing a meal with: Ada Wong. Leon, too, if she's being honest. They only seem to cross paths when Claire has to be putting in serious effort to keep from dying. Stopping for a quick bite just isn't an option. Unless the zombies are the ones doing the biting.

_Life is weird_, is what she decides on, dunking a fry in the ketchup with apparently no other point than to drown it ("Here, Leon." "Oh, no thanks; I don't like ketchup." "—Oh my God, why are we friends?"). _Eating might have been a mistake,_ is her second decision, fighting off a yawn. She hadn't been feeling all that tired; the idea of having a lead on Sherry's whereabouts left her plenty energized. Between her little spat with Leon, though, the time difference, and now a warm meal in her belly, Claire can feel the exhaustion set in.

It's just so _frustrating_ that Sherry's gone MIA. It's not really that Claire's mad at her; like the FBI agents that showed up at her door, she assumes that Sherry left on her own, of her free will, and on purpose. As her only visitor during the entirety of her thirteen year confinement, Claire's apartment seemed like the most logical place to start the search for Sherry. It's also the only lead they have. Unfortunately, Claire had no idea the girl was even missing, much less if she were hiding in Los Angeles.

What really grinds Claire's gears about the whole thing is that Sherry _didn't_ come to her. If she's gonna make a break for it, fine; more power to her. But she _didn't_ come to Claire. Why the heck not?

No doubt being watched for any sign of Sherry, Claire's job allows her a gracious amount of freedom. Claiming a TerraSave interview with government agent Leon S Kennedy, they begrudgingly let her leave the country. Leon, of course, also knows Sherry, and Claire promised that she would definitely ask him about her. Due to Leon's nonexistent contact with Sherry, though, the agents are moderately uninterested in anything he has to say, which Claire finds hilarious, considering she's going to see him specifically about the missing girl.

She learned a lot from those agents. It makes her heart ache to think she's the only person that visited Sherry this whole time, and even then it was all of three visits in the last two years. She wants to ask—no, _demand_—why Leon never went to see her. As someone who works for the government (the person that brought Sherry to them to begin with), he's had a helluva lot more access than Claire.

_What the hell is your deal_? she wonders, watching him collect his plates and stack them. Mister Gallant is just determined to help every person he comes across—

—as long your name isn't Claire Redfield or Sherry Birkin. _We get to spin in the wind_. She's not being exactly fair. They saw each other all of twice in Raccoon City, and neither of them were good about wanting to stick together: he left her alone in the STARS office without telling her, and; she left him down for the count in the sewers after he'd been shot. In her defense, though, she thought he was well on his way to bleeding to death. And he started it.

No one's ever accused Claire of _not_ holding grudges.

The worst of it, her minds continues to dwell as she finishes off her fries, is that it's like he doesn't_ know _how shitty he can be. For the handful of times she's seen Leon over the last decade and some change, her life has been on the line for all of them. Every single time, Claire wound up taking her chances on her own rather than try to fight for Leon's attention. And would it kill him to _notice_—

Alright. Miss Petty Party is _way_ far away from where these thoughts started. Sherry. Missing. Bed time. Okay.

"Ready when you are," Claire announces, looking at Ada. Leon takes her plates, placing it beneath his own, and Ada hands him her bowl and spoon. It makes for a dirty dish tower he pushes into the far corner of the table.

Ada's legs are crossed at the knee as she leans on an armchair, her arm propped to hold her head. Like she's just lounging away the evening. God. What Claire would pay to slap her. How absolutely insufferable she is aside, if Ada can lead them to Sherry, Claire can take it. She'll probably crack a molar from grinding her teeth, but she can take it.

"Before you ask for details," Ada begins, looking as board as her tone. "Don't. There aren't any. This will be a bullet point presentation I came across through the grapevine."

Leon doesn't say anything. He just leans forward, resting his forearms near his knees as he listens. Claire is next to him on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her with the other drawn up, her socked foot flat on the leather (her boots relocated to the floor near her duffle sometime between ordering the food and its arrival).

At Ada's instruction, Claire closes her eyes just long enough to be noticeable. It could be her fighting off sleep, but she's holding in the death rays she wishes came from her eyes. So, no fact checking? _What_ a surprise. Let's just take her word for this then.

"Just…" Claire opens her eyes with a slight shake of her head to move her bangs. "Go, already." Leon casts her glance and nods in agreement, looking back to Ada.

"Her disappearance is linked to Wesker."

Well. At the very least, Claire's awake now.

"Or, more accurately: his legacy." Ada lifts her head from her hand, sitting up a bit. "I keep my ear to the tracks of former employers." Claire's eyes narrow without her noticing. Been in league with Wesker, huh? _Why am I not surprised? _"Wesker's channels have been long quiet. There was some rumbling as his empire went still, but…" Her shrug is so elegant. Does she do anything like a normal person. "…that's about it.

"I should have realized that was a problem."

Claire can't help herself. "Why is that a problem?"

"Some kind of retaliation was theorized," Leon offers. "The whole idea was more the BSAA's problem, but Adam—" He stops, swallowing. Claire files it away for later; what could have him some upset about it? She didn't think he ever came across Wesker. "—President Benford was made aware of the possibility. Nothing ever came from it, though."

"They were bidding their time." Claire tilts her head and Leon leans back against the couch. "An empire that top heavy should have collpased without its center of gravity. The high rollers of Wesker's club just went dark instead, and everyone keeping an eye out said good riddance. They've all suddenly reappeared."

This is a bit out of Claire's field. She deals with people whom are affected by bio-terrorism, not the people that cause it. Of course she's familiar with Albert Wesker (depressingly so in Antarctica), but his actions and true impact on the world are a mystery to her.

Lucky, Leon is more versed in this than she is. "I was under the impression Ricardo Irving and Excella Gionne were terminated during the Kijuju outbreak with Wesker."

The first name isn't familiar, but the second is. Excella had been the philanthropic heart of TriCell; she campaigned within the company (against her own father's wishes) to become the chief executive for the West African branch because she felt she could make the most change there. Or so she said. According to Chris, she was really using the destitute area as a testing ground for Wesker's bio-organic philosopher's stone. And also, she was Wesker's girlfriend? Or something? Whatever the truth, the BSAA couldn't get it to stick as any evidence of Excella's sinister dealings were lost within the fire of an oilfield and a tanker she was trying to escape on.

Gioachino Narciso Gionne, TriCell's CEO and Excella's dad, had been out for blood. The man was completely devastated by the loss of his daughter and eventually stepped down from the company—but not before calling the entirety of the BSAA into question. There had been some kind of official order requesting that all BSAA members withdraw from the area that Chris and at least two other members ignored.

That meant they were technically considered AWOL and the BSAA couldn't be held accountable for their actions. _Someone_ had to be accountable, though, and Chris along with any other agent that ignored the orders were on paid suspension until some serious PR damage control could be done. Claire remembers watching the circus on the news.

If anything good could be said about it, she got to watch it with Chris since he hid out at her apartment while his was building was surrounded by reporters.

"They certainly did." Ada sounds just a bit happy about it. Claire wonders what's up with that. "They weren't the only ones in Wesker's corner, though."

"This is all interesting," and it is, Claire means it. "But _what_ does this have to do with Sherry?"

"Wesker appears to have had a last request. Something he was saving for a rainy day."

Leon beats Claire to it; "What would that be?"

Ada shakes her head slowly. "No clue. Just that every card carrying member of his club has a part to play in it. And one of those parts," she explains, looking at Claire, "is to obtain Sherry."

"_She was kidnapped_?!"

Claire has been ready to believe Sherry ran away. This is a whole other thing, and she stands up, feeling too apprehensive to sit.

"Kidnapped or convinced, kind of depends who went after her." Claire looks at Ada. "Wesker runs with a specified crowd. Everyone's got a talent, and force is a common one." Claire sucks in a breath through her teeth. How is this supposed to be helping? Ada leans forward then, keeping eye contact with her.

Her expression is something Claire would confuse with 'kind' if anyone else were wearing it. "For what it's worth, I don't think he'd send someone like that."

"Yeah?" Everything about this is upsetting, and it's easy to be confrontational. Leon stands, touching her arm lightly. Like a reminder she's not alone. It deflates her a bit, and her tone lacks the bite that normally comes alone at times like this. "You know Wesker well?"

Despite the smirk on her face, Ada's face is unreadable. Leon's just as interested in her answer.

"Better than anyone in _this_ room."

Neither of them have any idea what to make of _that_, and Leon steers them back on track. "Where is the... _disciple_ that was supposed to talk to Sherry?"

She shrugs. "I don't know who it is, so I don't know where they are." Claire lets out a loud _tch_, though it's more in frustration in getting absolutely nowhere. This whole thing, this whole trip has brought her exactly no closer to finding Sherry. The only thing she'll be taking back to the States with her is the idea that Sherry's either been taken against her will, or talked into going to who knows where. If there's one thing to be impressed by, Claire has found that she can, indeed, feel worse about this.

"It's gonna be okay."

She looks up at Leon, almost unsure she heard him. His back is to Ada, giving Claire his full attention. This is that she's-the-only-person-in-the-world treatment she's watched him dole out to others. So this is why women like Angela get all twitterpated and hung up on him, huh? They meet Leon, confident and trained, but that's not how Claire met him. There was a lot more blood, a lot less having a clue, and definitely less smirking.

"We'll find her," he goes on. _He still doesn't have a clue_, she thinks, turning away. This is stressing her out and she's jetlagged; she'll cry at this rate. Claire can already feel the prickling sensation of tears at the corners of her eyes.

She isn't doing this here, like this. Not front of _Ada Wong_ of all Goddamned people. Claire rolls her eyes towards the ceiling in an effort to keep it together. "What do _you_ know?"

Claire can hear him smile. "I know we found her last time."

"What's this 'we' business?" she asks him, scoffing before she brings her hands to her face, losing her grip for the night.

"She has always been in the best of hands, Claire." Leon doesn't let up, and she turns to give him a bleary-eyed and weak glare. "Yours."

The look they share just depresses Claire. She can tell he thinks they're having a silent conversation of understanding. He's telling her wonderful things with that look, she's sure of it. It's a different story on her end. If her hands were any good, Sherry would still be in them. He's saying things she certainly wants to hear, but can't listen to.

It's not the truth.

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>13 September<em>  
><em>Sofitel Cairo El Gezirah Hotel; Lobby<em>  
><em>04:51 AM<em>

Leon decides they're calling it a night.

Especially since the sun will rise soon. Claire is quickly succumbing to exhaustion, and he volunteers to leave with Ada. There'd been a little bit of confusion in discovering Leon has another hotel room, as well as Ada; in Claire's haste, she hadn't booked a room, and it's decided she can stay in the suite. She didn't seem particularly happy about it, but she was too tired to put up a serious fight.

After signing some paperwork to put the room in Claire's name, he finds that Ada has waited for him. It's just as well; he wasn't done talking to her.

"Good morning," he says, walking up to her. She's leaning against the back of a couch in the lobby. She only returns his smile. His falls around the edges. "That can't have been all you wanted to say up there."

"I don't know who went for Sherry," Ada reiterates and takes a deep breath, turning her head to look out the big windows by the entrance. He narrows his eyes. Is she somewhere she shouldn't be? "However, I _did_ get a location of another one of his disciples."

She's looking for something, he can tell. _Or someone._ It occurs to him how far Wesker's reach extends. Did Ada take some kind of _personal_ risk to bring them the information? She _did_ stress that he's a _former_ employer. Leon can only assume why someone would leave Wesker's 'club'.

"You think they'll lead us to Sherry?"

Ada shrugs, and steps away from the couch. She gestures towards the front doors and he follows her out. "Or someone who can. It's the best I can offer."

The entrance doors open up to a decorative roundabout that is in constant stream of valets and taxis. He holds an arm out as they reach the curb, hailing her a cab. "It's more than we can ask." He gets the door for her, and while Ada steps onto the street, she doesn't get into the cab right away. "I owe you one, Ada."

She scoffs at that. "_At least_." With a hand on top of her open door, she sighs. "You should move fast, Officer. Who knows what they're doing."

He puts his hand over hers, and Ada looks at it. "Do you think…" This is hard to ask, because it's ridiculous. But like she said, she would know better than him. "Do you think Wesker _could_ be back?"

"He fell into a _volcano_, Leon." Before he call tell her yeah, he knows, she adds something that sends a chill down his spine. "If anyone could survive that, though, it'd be him."

They'd both rather not think about it, and after he gives a small amount of comforting pressure to her hand, he steps back from the taxi. "Where are we going?" he asks her as Ada climbs inside.

"Mixcóatl."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I am so sorry. I was not in my home for the holidays and it never occurred to me to upload chapters to the doc manager before hand in case I wouldn't be. I've learned from this mistake. For all the good it'll do; I won't going anywhere now. Life lessons. I hope you rang in the New Year the way you wanted to. I swear, hand to God, we update Tuesdays. <strong>


	8. chapter 7: anitpositional

**Author's Note: Indescribable thanks to TheDonutMistress for standing behind this project with me.**

* * *

><p>chapter seven<p>

**antipositional**  
><em>ænti, pəˈziSHənl/_  
><em>used to describe moves that are part of an incorrect plan<br>rather than a mistake made when trying to follow a correct plan_

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Khutors; town inn<em>  
><em>11:07 PM<em>

Rebecca stares at Chris' empty bed.

The walk back from the Bad House was unsurprisingly quiet. After she explained to Daniil just how sick Valram was, all three of them had enough to think about that silence settled easily between them. Back at Bad House, Chris and Rebecca made another sweep for the missing sister; no body or remains. Nothing to suggest she's been in the house recently.

Procedure dictates the next step from here is to reach out to HQ. The closest BSAA office acts as headquarters for any missions in its area. Magadan, Russia houses the physically nearest building, but they're going to have to push the request to reach Moscow. They'll need at least two other agents to go forward with a proper sweep of the surrounding areas, as well as all the house checks. Not to mention the blood tests to check for infection among the villagers; Rebecca is qualified to perform the tests, but she'll need the equipment to do so.

And the whole thing is going to have to be done quickly and precise. Each and every country wants to handle biohazards their own way, and the BSAA is no stranger to getting pushback from those governments. Everyone's always trying to save face and it always costs lives. Russia in particular is always trouble. They put stacks of bureaucratic nonsense in the anti-bio-terrorism company's way, holding back agents while proper paperwork is filled out and more people are killed, or worse: infected. With her and Chris not being there with permission, avoiding all proper channels… They'll need to act faster than phone calls can be made.

Starting tomorrow.

The police station is closed for the night, and they're just far enough out in the sticks that their cellphones are little more than fancy clocks. First thing in the morning, her and Chris will has to reach out to the BSAA and have some back up shipped in before telling the government about what's happening here. It'll get her and Chris kicked from the country (maybe even permanently), but at least that'll be after they've helped these people.

_It'd be nice if we could help ourselves_, she thinks with a long sigh. She parted with her red STARS headband some twelve years ago, and she reaches up to run her hands though her hair. Rebecca has kept to short haircuts her whole life, though she did tolerate a bit length just to give the stylist something to work with for her wedding. Working in labs, it's just more practical to keep short hair. So she tries out different cuts and styles, and for now has a razor cut bob...

..._that feels _gross_ between the mousse and sweat_. Chris still hasn't returned from the lone bathroom they share. They inn is all of twenty rooms, and they opted to share a room and a bathroom based on the rubles they have between them. Daniil had been good and offered his home, but she and Chris politely declined due to the hour. It seemed more of an offer out of obligation than a real request, anyway.

She knocks, and frowns at the 'Yeah' that comes from behind it. He doesn't sound very good. "I'm coming in, okay?"

"Okay."

The door creaks open to a modest, cramped bathroom. A small sink is against the wall, beneath a window that gives a view of the town square from the second floor. Barely to the right is the toilet (which currently has the lid up but the seat down), and to the right of that is the bathtub, nearly full of water.

And Chris. Rebecca looks at him with a lot of concern as she steps inside, leaving the door partially open. In the corner of the room that's hidden by the door and the end of the tub is Chris' gear in a pile, and she's sure a better spot would have been his bed. It only takes four steps to reach the toilet, and Rebecca puts down the lid to sit on it. She blows out a breath, intertwining her fingers, trying to think of what to say.

Chris sits in the tub, slumped and scrunched, making himself fit despite being almost comically too large. The water sloshes around gently as he lifts a hand from it to rub at the stubble on his chin. They stay like that, her holding her breath in thought while he stares ahead at things that aren't there, for an uncomfortable moment before he speaks.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Rebecca reaches out, finding the water has gone cool—assuming it started warm. "I don't think they'll be considering you for the field," she says, withdrawing her hand and dabbing her fingers on her pants, "when they get to this part of my report."

The water chops as he drops his hand. "What's weird about taking a bath during a mission?"

"Well, for starters, the water is cold."

"It _was_ hot."

"Ah well, that's nice," she nods. "So, you're sitting in water that is _now_ cold—fully clothed."

If he has something to say to that, he doesn't share it. Instead he shifts onto to his side, laying his head on the edge of the tub. Rebecca watches scattered water droplets make slow trails across his skin and through his stubble to the ceramic. He's a bit pale but his lips aren't discoloured, so she doesn't think the water's temperature is affecting him much yet. The room is warm enough, but he'll certainly feel a chill when he gets out.

"Chris," she says, gently. He brought a bag, but she isn't sure what's in it. Should she paw through it for a spare yet of clothes? "Chris?" He blinks drowsily, ignoring her. With a somewhat irritated breath, she tries again. "Christian—"

"_Chris_."

"—Chris," she smirks, just knowing that would work. "Do you want me to call Claire?" It would have to wait until morning, but.

It's an offer Rebecca makes to cheer him up, but he somehow manages to look more miserable. "No," he breathes. The word is so soft; it barely makes it past his unmoving lips. "M'fine." Unable to help herself, she reaches out to him, running her small hand over his short hair. As she cards her fingers through his hair, she begins to find white strands.

He's closed his eyes, breathing steadily beneath her touch. A part of her is worried he'll fall asleep, but if anyone deserves rest, it's Chris Redfield. Already going grey Chris; spread thin, worn out Chris. Who's given everything he has, and when that isn't enough he manages to find more. All Chris has looked at for the last decade is the monster that's in all of us and its clearly taking its toll. He's doing okay _now_, but the truth is that Chris is reaching that age where agents retire and he has no plans to. He burned out years ago but keeps plugging away with energy he doesn't have. This job is killing him and even knowing all of that, she still respects and admires and aspires, and that terrifies her.

If everyone is so moved by his actions, who's going to put a stop to them?

Getting bolder, she starts raking her nails across his scalp. "Are you sure?" Rebecca asks, unable to believe he's 'fine'. "It might help to talk to her." Seeing as how she's a licensed professional on top of being his sister.

His only response is to lean more into her touch. After worrying her lip for a moment, she hesitantly offers, "What about… Jill?"

"No," he croaks immediately. Chris clears his throat, insisting again, "_No_," and begins rolling back on to his back. She withdraws her hand. "Don't call _her_; don't call anybody."

One of these days, she'll work up the nerve to ask what happened between him and Jill. He had been over the moon when he found her alive. Now, just hearing her name makes the skin around his eyes flinch.

"Well, what do you want to do then?" Her hand is wet from his hair, and she wipes at her pants. "Because you can't stay here all night, and I'm worried about you."

Chris doesn't say anything right away, and she's about to use Jill as a threat. But then, "I had to do it."

He's talking about Valram, and her shoulders slump. "I know."

"I couldn't let him change, Becky," he goes on, staring at the water around his knees. "It's worse to put somebody down _after_ they turn. You know?" Rebecca does, but he isn't looking for a response. "We've seen it; that's real pain, real terror. He's just a _kid_; he didn't need to _know_ what was happening." After… ending the boy's suffering before it began, she tearfully located a tarp, and they pulled it over Valram's small body.

"I know—"

He moves loudly in the water, lifting his arms to grip something that isn't there. "It wasn't an easy choice, even though I made it right away. It's not like I _didn't_ think about it. And I gave him the _candy bar_—"

"Chris." Rebecca places her hand on his drying shoulder. It's barely damp. "_No one_ is going to think you didn't do the right thing," she promises him, giving him a light squeeze. She might have tried for a harder one, but her hand can barely grab enough of him to grip. "The right thing, in this case, was just awful." He pulls a face, wincing. "That doesn't mean _you_ or the choice you made is awful."

He shakes his head. "But I—"

"I would have, too," she tells him, cutting him off. "The best we could have done is make it quick, and if I was here all by myself, I would have done the same thing."

He laughs then, half scoffed and self-deprecating. "_You_ wouldn't be by yourself," he says, the corner of his mouth twisted up into a smirk that's more of a sneer. "_You'd_ be here with your team, prepared. _Sanctioned_." His hands drop heavily into the water. "Not trying to work the system you _built_."

There's some truth to that, but she shrugs anyway, even if he can't see it. "Who better to work it?"

Chris smiles at her then, a real and honest smile. For just a moment, Rebecca thinks as she smiles back, this can still end well for them.

Until the frantic pounding on their door.

_Alexandria, Egypt_  
><em>23 July<br>__Island of Pharos; private residence  
><em>_09:43 AM_

Sherry really likes Mrs White.

She doesn't look much older than Sherry, but she is vastly better looking (in Sherry's opinion, anyway). Her appearance is almost other worldly, with striking colouring and soft features. Her skin is dark, a perfect blend of sun-kissed and genetics. She reminds Sherry of coffee with creamer, and it's a serious effort not to stare at her. Her hair is chocolate and worn in long, braided tails that are both messy and pretty. Everything about the girl is effortless and natural, except for her eyes.

They're a pale blue, the kind of colour Sherry would find if she looked up at a winter sky. They're even more surprising framed by her dark lashes and hair, but just like Mr Green's eyes, Mrs White's seem to glow. There's a light behind her stare that, unlike Mr Green, doesn't go away. Sherry's disappointed the girl is leaving after breakfast.

Which is quite the spread, by the way. There's a large (all the plate wear is crystal) bowl of scrambled eggs, featuring mushrooms, red peppers, green onions and diced ham. A tall stack of blueberry pancakes sits on plate, with syrup in one of those fancy pouring bowls with a dip on one side. Cubed melon—watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, and a blue one she doesn't recognize—are in a matching bowl with a serving spoon lain next to it. A pitcher of orange juice and another of milk are in the center of the table, making for an appetizing arrangement.

Sherry found the table loaded and ready for serving while exploring what little of this place she could. Maybe it had to do with the unholy hour, but just about every door was locked. And if a door wasn't locked, it would just lead to another hallway. Aside from her own room and the dining area, she managed to find a large billiards-type room; the door opens to a split level, the lower area housing a very posh looking bar area, and the upper platform home to a pool table.

The room had a tool box behind the bar down below, and she wondered what Mr Body would be doing fixing his own things, _and then_ Sherry laughed at a little too hard at her own joke; of Mrs Peacock in the billiards with the wrench.

All in all, her search was pretty fruitless, and now she sits at the dining table, next to Green. The Professor is at the end of the table closest to them, and Mrs White is across from Sherry. Green has a lot of everything, while the Professor seems content with coffee (that Sherry notes isn't available on the table), and Mrs White happily picks at the fruit with a wine glass of orange juice. Sherry is quite satisfied with the pancakes; the blueberries in them are _huge_.

"Still. I'm sorry I did not greet you," Mrs White goes on, her accent hitting the 'R's hard. Sherry feels rude asking, but she's guessing Spanish or maybe Brazilian is her native language; something Latin or South American anyway.

She holds up a hand and shakes her head, swallowing her mouthful of milk. "Don't worry about it! Really."

Green chimes in, from behind his mound of eggs. "She's right; Ms Pea and I got in way late." Sherry takes a breath at the nickname, but she guesses she should just be glad he hasn't started with 'sweet pea'.

"All the same," Mrs White goes on, a perfect square of honeydew at the end of her fork. "I am sorry our time is so short, Ms Peacock. We will have to talk more."

"You'll be back soon?" Sherry asks, trying not to sound like she's fishing.

The Professor glances up from whatever he's reading on his (silver) tablet. Mrs White shrugs. "I don't know," she says, sounding dreamy. "I am to see _mi padre_."

The air changes immediately when she says that; Green and the Professor exchanging uncomfortable looks. The Professor finishes his coffee and clears his throat, preparing to stand. "Well, I tire of waiting. I'll go on ahead to the laboratory ahead of you, Ms Peacock." Green looks mildly annoyed as the older man excuses himself. Sherry gets the impression now he can't leave.

"See ya, Prof," he says without feeling, stabbing into his eggs.

"_Adeus,_" Mrs White smiles, lifting her orange juice. "I will check in when I arrive. _Promessa_."

Professor Plum nods, a pleasant but fixed expression on his face. "Of that I have no doubt. Pleasant travels. And Mr Green…" The Professor stops by Green's chair, leaning close to him, adding quietly, "Be sure to show Ms Peacock around, lest she sees something she shouldn't."

Sherry pretends to be listening to Mrs White, but the warning doesn't go missed. Maybe she wasn't as careful as she thought she was last night. Green, to his credit, simply puts his cloth napkin back on his lap and lays his arm over the back of her chair, and says, "She's cool."

"Will it be nice to see your dad?" she asks, doing her best to feign ignorance of the conversation next to her. It's an effort for her not to look at Green, but it's more in surprise of his words than scorn of his arm placement. Everyone Sherry has met since leaving the plane have been nothing but nice, and that's kind of the problem. It seems rather disingenuous at times—or in the Professor's case, _all the time_—and that's left her feeling suspicious.

She hasn't known Mrs White longer than an hour, but she seems to mean every bit of her shy, friendly words. Mr Green is somewhere in the middle. She has a hard time believing what he says, but his _actions_ make her feel like there's something trustworthy to him: holding her hand when they left the plane; letting her sleep even though it made them late, and; displaying a protective arm around her whenever she's questioned. It makes her think there's a very specific reason Mr Body sent him in his stead;

To ensure she's in good hands.

"I am most excited." Sherry has to blink to refocus, realizing she was staring past Mrs White's head. The Professor leaves without another word. "I hope to hold his hand." Sherry can't help the questioning look on her face, though it doesn't appear like the girl across from her notices as she returns to her fruit.

With Green's arm already around the top of his chair, he leans in towards her. She could push him away for being so close; his breath against her neck makes her shiver. "Her dad got wrecked by a virus," he tells her, and Sherry's eyes widen a bit. "Mr Body found a way to stabilize him."

She turns towards him suddenly, nearly bumping him with her nose. It's a staggering effort not to blurt out her questions, and she manages to keep it to a mouthed 'how?' He just smirks knowingly at her, which only prompts her to deepen her confused expression.

_clack_. Sherry turns her head while Green only glances at where Mrs White has set her bowl down. "I will go first," she announces, casting a look between the two that causes Sherry to flush and lean away from him. Mrs White stands and moves around the table, and Sherry feels the need to suddenly stand as well.

"We must talk more when I return," she says happily, holding out her arms for a hug. Sherry's too surprised to do much else than return gesture. However much of her blush left her face before returns quickly; she feels the same strange, unknown, but oddly pleasant feeling she gets from touching Mr Green. "How wonderful to have you here," she tells Sherry, a smile on her face as she pulls away. "Best of luck to us both."

Mrs White squeezes her hands, and Sherry notices the bandages on her hands and arms again. She'd all but forgotten about them during breakfast. She offers an awkward, "Bye," and Mrs White leaves the room with a nod to Mr Green, who returns it lazily.

Green returns to his food, but Sherry remains standing. She runs her fingers down a flushed cheek in thought. _What is up with these two?_ she wonders. _Why do I feel so weird when I'm around them?_

"Finish your breakfast," he says, and she jumps at his voice. As if reading her mind, "Then we'll go for a walk." She tries to ask him about it away, but he won't have it. This time, his tone has more warning. "_We'll talk later_."

Still, Sherry hesitates, and he taps his fork on the edge of her plate. Deciding not to press her luck further, she takes her seat and sets back to work on her pancake. Not that she can explain it, but it feels like he's trying to do her a favour.

"Pretty good, right?" he asks, not looking up from his food.

"Mhm," is all she says, following his lead.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The hardest part about writing ahead is not posting everything at once. It also sucks when I change my mind about something in chapter fourteen, and have redo nine to make it work. Talk to me, folks! What are we thinking? Stay comfortable! We update Tuesdays.<strong>


	9. chapter 8: combination

**Author's Note: No, but like. You don't understand how badly I needed him in this story. _I_ didn't know I needed it until I wrote him in.**

* * *

><p>chapter eight<p>

**combination**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em>ˌkämbəˈnāSH(ə)n/_  
><em>a clever sequence of moves, often involving a sacrifice, to gain the advantage<em>

_Sikkim, India_  
><em>19 September<em>  
><em>Yumesongdong; BSAA base operation<em>  
><em>01:13 PM<em>

Bruce has learned he really likes _momos_.

If anything good has to come from this, it's that. He bites into another dumpling, the heavy taste of buffalo meat at odds with the sour sensation that comes with reviewing the latest overview of the area. There are more red Xs than thirteen hours ago, and that is disheartening to say the least. Nothing can interfere with his appetite, but this situation is making a damn good go of it.

They're losing ground every day. Any city in India is a shitty place for an outbreak (anywhere is a shitty place for an outbreak, but you know what he means) because the people are densely packed. It makes it nearly impossible to have a smooth evacuation, and the number of infected is staggering in a short amount of time. But it's not just a city this time; it's the entire Goddamn _state_. Which is both equal parts impressive as well as terrifying.

They're still waiting for the nerds to get back to them, but the current best guess is that someone released a T-based virus into the Teesta River, absolutely screwing the communities built along it. A fifth of the population immediately doomed. That's one-hundred, thirty _thousand_ people in one go, for those keeping track at home, and let Bruce tell you, this has been one of the worst biohazards on record. And that's after the fuckstorm that was Lanshiang—which by the way, is unrelated to what's happening here.

Go fucking figure, right?

Lanshiang _does_ have to do with the decision to stick home base this close to the border, though. The Chinese government is understandably skittish and pissed off after the devastation of Waiyip and the C-virus bombing of Tatchi, and made a statement very quickly that if the infestation in India spills over the border, they will _not_ be hesitating in the retaliation department.

So the BSAA set up shop in the southern Himalayans, setting up something of a long, border spanning Alamo. The mountains are tough terrain for zombies to cross, but it's _people_ that are familiar with the trek and are bit are the real problem. Carriers are always more dangerous than people whom have turned. Sadly, this has translated to the BSAA stopping the refugees and forcing them to make camp. If China makes good on its threats, they won't be anyone left to save.

In an odd twist, neighboring country Nepal has stopped its civil war long enough to throw everything it has against the boarder. How nice that both sides can agree to survive to war internally another day. The surrounding areas are in agreement to keep the state of Sikkim isolated, but that's about the extent of their teamwork. Even India, whom Sikkim is by all rights merged with, has more or less abandoned the area. The truth there is that the country is still reeling from the 2005 attack and human testing. They'll take no part in this, to lessen the risk against them. The Middle Eastern Branch is stuck ping ponging paperwork with the Far East Branch, both sides trying to find resources to spare for the event. The bulk of the work has fallen on the North American and Oceanic teams.

All that means, as far as Bruce is concerned, is they are well up shit creek without a paddle. Him and Fong Ling have been stationed in Hong Kong since 2005, her having joined the BSAA with him since a US citizenship isn't required. She's a primary translator and liaison between the Oceanic and Far East branches, and Bruce is… is, well, there by request. Turning a blind (and rolling) eye to the obvious fraternization, Clive O'Brian assigned them together.

The man's invited to the wedding, whenever _someone_ gets around to proposing. Finishing off another _momos_, Bruce casts an eye towards his lady love, who looks at the map even more critically than the captain beside them. The news of Lanshiang had been hard on her, and it was even worse when they were ordered to keep out.

She's going to do her damnedest to keep her country safe this time around, and while that's all well and good, Bruce is growing more concerned about her the darker the circles beneath her eyes get.

"Ling, honey," he says, licking the last of the sauce off a plastic fork. "Let's take a walk."

She sighs from the back of her throat, a guttural sound he's come to associate with disgust or frustration. Or both, when she finds out he hasn't done the dishes. "Look at this." Ling gestures at the digital map before them. It's a yellow screen, with brighter yellow lines making out urban areas and rivers. The red circles and Xs are jarring against the colour, making a point to get someone's attention. "We are losing ground immeasurably; so much chaos, every update is inaccurate."

"Well, scowling at a map ain't gonna change much," he tells her. Fong Ling turns her glare on him, and Bruce shrugs, tossing the fork into the paper bowl. "Let's give the captain some room to work, honey, and get some fresh air."

He opens the door before she can answer and, with an unhappy huff, she walks through. Captain Gere gives an up-nod of thanks (Fong Ling has proven to be rather bossy, despite having no authority here), and lets them leave without a formal dismissal. Mina's laid back like that, and maybe if Bruce were single he'd make a pass at the red head.

Following Fong Ling outside, they take in the sad view. The hotel atop the hill has been repurposed for their base of operations, and the entire city below has been converted into a refugee camp. The major roads are kept open to keep BSAA traffic flowing, but all the side streets are packed with tents and parked cars-turned-shelters. Survivors have begun fleeing towards BSAA outposts after Nepal, Bhutan, China _and_ India made it clear that attempts to cross their borders would be terminated without warning.

"_Fresh air_," Fong Ling scoffs, and he looks at her. "The air is filled with smoke."

Fishing his pack of toothpicks from a pocket on his tactile belt—hell of a time to quit smoking, right?—he looks back into the hazy sky. "Lotta a fires to put out."

"Everything is burning." She says it with no pretense, and it breaks his heart to see her like this. Toothpick between his teeth, Bruce reaches out for her, pulling her into a hug. She doesn't fight him (much), sighing and curling into him.

"We'll fix it, honey, you'll see," he tells her, making wide circles on her back with one hand while the other is hooked around her waist. "That's what we do."

"We are not doing it fast enough," she mumbles against his chest. Even after all these years, there's still that touch of accent he fell for.

He sighs, through his nose, rolling the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "You watch; I'll take care of the whole thing personally." A beat. "It can be a weddin' present."

"Ha," she breathes, but he can hear the smile on her lips. Fong Ling slides her hands from his chest to his back, hugging him back. "_Don-Gua_."

"So—that's a 'yes', then?"

_Cairo, Egypt_  
><em>14 September<em>  
><em>Cairo International Airport; terminal 3<em>  
><em>08:28 AM<em>

Leon is not looking forward to this flight.

In three stops and twenty-five hours, they'll be at Alejandro Velasco Astete International Airport. In the meantime, he's going to feel every minute of it. Hunnigan sits across the way from him and Claire, typing away on her laptop, securing their connecting flights, and establishing a contact for them once they touch down. It's a lot of work to do on the sly (after all, none of this is official business for either he or Claire's departments), and they're both grateful for her help.

Claire says so. "I really appreciate this. Especially on your vacation."

"Ha," Hunnigan scoffs, and Leon gives her a warning look she notices and doesn't heed. "Vacations are a theory. This is as much a job as any mission." Claire casts on odd look between the two, and Leon looks away, finding the planes outside interesting. "I'm glad to help Chris Redfield's sister."

"You know Chris?" she asks, leaning forward then, resting her forearms on her knees. There's a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They way she lights up at the mention of her brother is very... Well, it's _cute_. Might as well call it what it is.

Hunnigan stops typing and adjusts her glasses. "Briefly and professionally. We spoke while he was in China."

Leon catches Claire's grimace in the window and looks at her. "Sorry," she apologizes, looking like she ate something sour. "If he had a bad attitude," she clarifies. "I heard he was kind of a _pill_ during that time."

"It was a stressful situation—"

"Chris knows when he's being an ass," Claire interrupts, waving off Hunnigan's dismissal. "Don't let him get away with it."

Leon drums his fingers on his arm rests trying not to laugh, and Hunnigan gives an incredulous nod at the bold admission. Chris Redfield is one of the _the_ heroes in their profession, and to hear him spoken of with so little revere is somewhere between rare and unheard of. Leave it to Claire. Though, Leon supposes, Chris has been a big brother and all that entails for a lot longer than he's been mutant fighting machine.

After a moment of hesitance, he asks, "About him being a pill." Claire turns her head towards him, tightening her ponytail. "Was that because of what happened between him and I?"

Even with all the time to think about it, his encounter with Chris at that warehouse in pursuit of Ada is still too surreal. Chris is a mammoth of a man, and Leon is still in some awe that he managed to walk away from that fight. Training and muscle memory have enough to do with it, but there is an unmistakable amount of luck that played a part. Leon throws a decent punch, but Chris seems to exclusively deal in haymakers; assuming Leon would still have had a head if Chris connected a hit, it would be cratered—a perfect dent of Chris' fist in his skull.

Claire stares at him, confused. "You were in China, too?" she asks, and then her eyes narrow. "You saw _Chris_ in China?"

"I…" He feels like he's fanning the flames of a fire he didn't know was there. "Only once?"

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, wearing that smile Leon has come to learn Claire uses when she's annoyed. "That guy is such a piece of work," she says, unimpressed. "He failed to mention that even once."

Leon tips his head towards Hunnigan in acknowledgement, repeating lamely, "It was a stressful situation."

Claire just leans back in her chair with a drawn out sigh. She's been in a bad mood all morning, Leon can't help but notice. Admittedly, he did wake her when he came around earlier this morning (she's a monster when roused, Leon has learned), but she seemed to have forgiven it during breakfast with Michael Graham. After the taxi ride, though, her mood had soured again. Leon and Hunnigan shared a look and a shrug; they rode together, Claire shared a cab with Ashley.

The former President's daughter sits next to Hunnigan, wishing to watch Leon depart—with some woman she doesn't know. He tries not to imagine what she might have told Claire on the way over. Ashley isn't malicious, but she might say bold things to needle out information. It's bad form any day of the week, but he really doesn't need to have a ticked off Redfield next to him for a flight that's longer than a _day_.

_The trial begins_, he thinks, as a flight attendant calls for first class boarding to begin. With their bags checked ("Why are we checking them?" "I always check my bags, Claire." "Rookie mistake.") they have nothing to carry and stand after sharing a look that reads 'after you'.

Following their lead, Hunnigan and Ashley also get up. "There will be a contact waiting for you," Hunnigan says, resting her closed laptop against her hip. "A South American BSAA member that's willing to work off the clock. They'll act as a translator and a guide," she advises, handing Leon a memory stick. "Those are your flight details, hotel directions, and excess contact info."

"Thanks, Hunnigan," he says, pocketing the gift. "We appreciate it."

"Seriously," Claire adds. She looks at as grateful as she sounds. "This was a lot to put together on a whim."

She just smiles, tipping her head in appreciation. "The US government has its ways. Good luck, you two," she addresses them both. "We won't be able to talk much electronically; we're racing another department and they've got their eye on Claire. If you have to reach me, though, Leon will be able to."

"I can't believe you're missing my wedding."

The three of them turn to look at Ashley. Leon shrugs haplessly, and Ashley uncrosses her arms as she steps forward. "I guess it's alright, since you're saving the day and all," she smiles, holding out her arms for a hug.

"Duty calls," is all he says, returning her embrace and patting her on the back. From his angle, he can't see the possessive look she flashes Claire. She merely rolls her eyes and shares a knowing look with Hunnigan. Pulling away, he gives Ashley's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Save the most expensive thing on the registry for me, huh?"

The first life he ever saved laughs. "Deal."

As they step away from each other, he finds Hunnigan and Claire shaking hands. "Have a safe trip, both of you."

"I'm sure it'll be pretty tame," Ashley comments dryly, giving Claire a look he doesn't understand. He'd guess it's something like a warning, but he wouldn't know why. Claire gives her an equally strained smile.

"It'll go the way it always go."

_What even does that mean?_ he wonders as they turn away. Heading out of the aisle of chairs, they make their way down the open space of the terminal for the boarding station. Leon considers checking out the contact information Hunnigan passed him before they're asked to turn off their phones, but Claire holds a fist out to him suddenly.

"Hey, can you hold this?" she asks.

"Sure," and he opens his hand for her. _Like a gum wrapper or something?_ Any small favour to make the flight less awkward.

She drops her _hand_ into his, lacing their fingers, stunning him out of his autopilot. "Oh, uhm, o-okay." When they simply walk and she makes no move to explain herself, he has to ask. "What are we doing?" Because this is a bit bold, even by Claire's standards. This is the first time they've come across each other without monsters and blood everywhere, and while they've known each other a _long_ time and have been through so much, he can't say they really _know_-know each other, and just the _idea_ that she sees things like _**that **_between _them_ is, well—well, frankly, it could make him _blush_, and—

"Pissing Ashley off."

—Leon could trip on her words and nearly does, but Claire keeps going and he manages to match her pace. "She was _such_ a brat on the way over here," she goes on, swinging their arms happily. To anyone, they could look like a couple, and it's a serious effort on Leon's part not to look back at Ashley and Hunnigan to see their faces. "Seriously," Claire continues to complain as they reach the line to board, and wait. "You should have _heard_ her; she gave me the third degree about how we know each other."

He clears his throat, looking around. "Oh, yeah?" Why is it hard to look at her right now? "What… did you talk about?"

"Raccoon, mostly," and he believes her answer. He chances a glance at her, and she's pulled out her phone. He can't tell what she's doing, but he thinks her background is of a rabbit. "She asked if I noticed how good looking you are, and I was like, not really; and she asked how is that possible, and I reminded her I spent six hours straight trying not to _die_. Sure, I picked up on it _later_. But at the time? Who _notices_ that stuff?"

Great. Now he _is_ blushing. Luckily he can distract himself with the tickets, but they're in his jacket pocket. He reaches across his chest for the inner pocket, but finds it empty sans a pack of gum. The flight attendant gives them a plastic grin, and he gives her a half smile back, worried he left them on the seat next to him while they were waiting.

"Other pocket, sweets."

He looks at her slowly, trying to keep his eyes from bulging out his head. Claire looks up from her phone and gestures to the other side of his leather jacket. "You put the tickets on the right side." He doesn't move right away, realizing to get the boarding passes out he'll have to let go of her hand, then he wonders why the _hell that even matters_—and _then_ he has to swallow a noise of surprise when Claire reaches into his jacket with the hand that isn't holding his.

"See?" She's smirking at him triumphantly and he wants to ask her what is she so proud of; embarrassing him? "Here ya go," she says, handing the passes over to be scanned.

"Have a _wonderful _flight."

Claire smiles brightly at him. "We're gonna."

Still recovering, he smirks. "Sure are."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I also enjoy writing ahead because if you say, idk, totally wreck yourself over the weekend and don't have it in you to write, doesn't interfere with anything. A reviewer asked if Jill will be in the story. She sure will! The rule seems to be: if they're alive at the end of their game, they're in the story. They might only appear in flashbacks (where perhaps not alive characters pop up, too, if anywhere), but they'll be around in some capacity. As a side branch to that, it looks like there will be a grand total of three original characters in this story, and y'all have only met one: Daniil. Mina Gere is from the BSAA comics. Be good to each other. We update Tuesdays.<strong>

**On a personal note, this is now officially the most chapters I've ever posted on this site for a single story! Whoo! Each week forward until the tale is told is going to be a new personal best! Hella! **


	10. chapter 9: trap

**Author's Note: Are you guys reading Partners in Action over at TheDonutMistress' page? Because you need to be.**

* * *

><p>chapter nine<p>

**trap**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em> trăp/  
>a move which may tempt the opponent to play a losing move<em>

_Cusco, Peru_  
><em>16 September<em>  
><em>Alejandro Velasco Astete International Airport; baggage claim<em>  
><em>11:22 AM<em>

Leon doesn't like their guide.

Their flight contains little conversation. Leon's reminder that any stunt she pulls with Ashley will come back on _him_ is drowned out by how pleased with herself Claire is, and sleep follows right after. He can zonk out anywhere after so much travel, but she took a few Benadryl to help her along. The twenty-two hour flight is passed in shifts. Each of them would awake to find a different time passing option on the other's lap: Claire found Leon's phone loosely in his hand, before drifting off with a book cracked open across her chest; he pocketed his cell in favor of going over the information Hunnigan left him on the PDA before his eyes droop closed, and Claire trades her book for snacks.

It's probably the best way it could have gone, he muses. There are _absolutely_ worse ways it could have gone—traveling like that can take all _sorts _of tolls—and he's glad that their wait for the baggage carousel to start is a bored one, versus cranky. At least, _Claire's_ not cranky. Leon on the other hand, well...

This Carlos guy can take a long walk off a short pier.

From his... _swagger_ to his Photoshopped smile, Leon has a hard time believing their BSAA contact has seen_ any _kind of combat. Not one to judges books and covers (Leon's been accused of looking a bit too pretty for the field, himself), he can't help but feel that Carlos may be the master of compartmentalizing if he's seen _anything_ like what might still be lurking around Mixcóatl.

Claire laughs. Again. _Let's not forget that dazzling bit_, Leon gripes to himself, checking the arrival times for the bags for the umpteenth time. She likes Carlos just _fine_.

"It's true," their native friend insists. "I'm fluent in Brazilian Portugese, Castilian, _y español_. Translator, soldier," he drops his voice into something Leon can only consider _especially suave _and adds, "Your future husband."

"Oh man," she laughs again. It's not that cackle she lets out when something's so funny she can't help herself, but Leon can tell by the shine in her eyes she's truly amused. "Long list of women that works on?"

"The list could end, if it works on you."

Leon tries not to huff too loudly, staring at the metal baggage carousel. The still damn not moving carousel. What's he in a hurry for, anyway? As soon as they get their things, they can then be trapped in a car with Carlos Oilvera. _Probably not even his real name_, he sniffs, checking his phone like he doesn't care at all about what's happening to his left. He doesn't care, because why should he?

He's about to remind them this isn't a date, when the _bong_ of the heavy announcement bell sounds, accompanied by the blinking blue light. "Finally!" Leon exclaims, stepping forward to the edge, forgetting his own reminder that being eager to leave is a waste.

The gray shutter at the end of the belt squeaks and shakes its way up but the belt doesn't begin to move yet. Claire comes up to his side, snapping a pink bubble of gum between her teeth. "Want some?" she asks, pointing at a new bubble.

"I've got gum, thanks," he smiles at her. "Didn't know you did."

"Got it from Carlos."

Of course she did. He nods, rubbing his lips together to keep from pursing them. The black rubbery conveyor belt begins to slide as the machinery kicks up into a steady hum. The first bag to come out is neither her black duffle with a purple ribbon nor his blue travel case. Now the real waiting begins.

After a few moments of Claire smacking and snapping her gum, she advises him Carlos went to get the car. Leon only gives a single nod, a bit curt too be polite, but he doesn't notice.

She does. "What's up with you?" she asks. It's not nearly as acquisitory as it could have been, but Claire has a certain tone when she speaks. She could mean it casually or be inquiring on his mood. He takes a moment before answering.

"Nothing," Leon tells her with a shrug, still feeling weird about his complaints over Carlos. "Just eager to get started."

Claire nods thoughtfully, chewing on that for a moment. "That's it?"

"Yeah," he answers stupidly, not expecting such a timid prod.

"Yeah, _right_," she smirks, but gives nothing else as the purple bow announcing her bag passes in front of them and she scoops it up.

_Pando Province, Bolivia_  
><em>17 September<em>  
><em>rain forest; unnamed road<em>  
><em>08:54 AM<em>

Claire's purple-tied bag sits alone in the boot of the jeep.

Leon's never arrived.

"So sorry, my man," Carlos tells him again, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. "I did not know direct flights did that."

"Seriously," Claire agrees, twisting in her seat to look at Leon. "It's not like there was a shuffle for it to get lost in."

His response is to shrug at both of them, uninterested in discussing it further. Claire had expressed condolences, but didn't feel bad enough to not call 'shotgun', and Leon tries to get comfortable in the conservative back seat without looking like he's sulking.

"Everything important was on me," is all he offers, grimacing. He can feel the road worsen, the rear suspension having been worn away sometime ago. Still though, as much of a pain in the butt as it is to have to buy clothes, his wallet, his passport, government badge and papers, gun (checked in with the air marshal), and the PDA with the vital intell Hunnigan gave them are all accounted for, between his jacket and his jeans.

It's a long drive from the airport in Peru, just over half a day, and they'd stayed the night at a rustic but clean hotel before the boarder. No use arriving in Mixcóatl in the middle of the night—not if things are still going bump in it.

Leon did _not _miss the commute. 'Choppers could only fly him and Krauser so far in before there was no where to land, and he can see no one's made any effort to make for an easier journey. Being the most sparsely populated, it's also the least transversed, and _boy howdy_ does it show; thick vegetation leaves only the vaguest hint of a road, and Leon's lower back can confirm no one in the government office has been inspired to pick out any of the rocks from the dirt.

_I'm going to be feeling this for __**days**_, he thinks with a grimace, the tires hitting another batch of well placed rocks to jostle him around the back seat. It's all worth it for Sherry, though. If there's even a hint that they're investigating this correctly, Leon would suffer any number of bumpy rides. They've been on bumpier ones, right?

Carlos and Claire talk about the region; she's interested in learning the area, and their chatty guide is ever eager to hear himself talk. Leon contributes sparsely, wrapped up in slightly unrelated thoughts. Like why this town is open to the public still. In the follow up debriefings, Leon and Krauser had been assured the area would be on government lock-down until there was one-hundred percent certainty the BOWs had been eradicated—even still past that, Mixcóatl would be fenced off and patrolled to block access to the laboratories that dam had been converted into by Javier Hidalgo and his mysterious backer. Probably a former Umbrella employee. According to Carlos though, that information was extremely exaggerated.

BOWs were hunted with a prejudice, that much of the promise was kept. The local government budget couldn't allow for much else to be completed, though, and the comprise was to heavily chain up the dam entrances. Leon's not a bureaucrat, paper pushing is far from his style, so the most he gets on status updates after he's done his job is a memo. It's nothing he personally oversees—especially back then.

The reality of the situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and there's a sudden concern for Maneula. He'd been told she made a full recovery. Coming back here now, seeing how untrue what he'd been told is... Believing in her happily ever after seems incredibly foolish. He'll ask Hunnigan to put in a few calls when he gets back. Just to be sure.

As the thick scenery begins to clear away and the dirt turns to mud, Leon knows they're getting closer to the town.

"...and with the river, Mixcóatl was by and large a fishing town." Carlos' voice finally breaks through the dark cloud of Leon's thoughts. He decides to shut down all those questions, he can think about any of that when they're through here. This is about Sherry.

Claire's nearly learning out her window, hands wrapped over the top of the door panel, trying to see between the leaves for the village. "Are we going to be _in_ the water?" she asks, not even trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm for the idea. Leon doesn't blame her; even without monster viruses, unchecked water systems can be teaming with all kind of bacteria.

Carlos laughs. "Not at all, _señorita_. Plenty of ways to get around on land. Several bridges, too," he assures.

"Actually," Leon interjects, and the two are startled by his sudden contribution. "A lot of the bridges got pretty damaged, from what I could see the last time I was here." Which is a half-truth; yes, a lot of the bridges and docks had been unusable, but also he damaged several himself. Nearly every one he came across.

Carlos' incredible frown is noticeable in the rear view mirror, and it makes Leon's smirk tighter. "Jeez," Claire says amiably. "I thought you were asleep back there. Did you really have to blow up everything?"

His shrug is uncommitted. "There were spiders."

"Oh my God, Leon." She reaches out and taps Carlos' leg with the back of her hand. "Want to hear a great story about him and spiders?"

Leon scowls at her. "They were the size of _cattle,_ Claire."

"You screamed like a kindergartner."

"I wouldn't know what to compare _your_ shrieking to when you saw some bugs."

"Excuse you; a hundred cockroaches the size of diner plates are not 'some bugs'."

Carlos' bark of laughter cuts between them before Leon can reminder Claire he heard her down a hall and through a door (it woke him from his latest stint of unconsciousness after being shot; she'd probably just counter that he hallucinated it from blood loss), but she remains twisted around in her seat to glare at him good naturedly.

"You two go back a ways, eh?" Carlos asks, shifting into a lower gear to help with the traction as the mud gets thicker.

"Yeah," Leon says, meeting her warm glare with a smug look.

"We shared our first rodeo," she adds. Their staring contest comes to an end when she sticks her tongue out and rights herself in her seat. Leon huffs a laugh. To Carlos, "In Raccoon City."

There's an odd silence from the driver's side, before Carlos mutters a contemplative, "No kidding." He lets out a slightly forced laugh, though it's more disbelieving than cutting. "Well, that's a hell of a thing to have in common," he says, and Leon's isn't sure he's taking about himself and Claire.

"That was my first rodeo, too."

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Khutors; town inn<em>  
><em>11:38 PM<em>

Chris is starting to think he's getting too old for this.

The banging on their door is unrelenting and desperate; someone_ needs _to get inside. Water sloshes heavily around, splashing onto the tiles as he struggles to stand. He places his big hands on either side of the tub, having to put some actually effort into lifting his heavy body out of the water in a hurry. It might have been tough any day, but with his clothes soaked through it's even more of a trick.

Rebecca doesn't wait for him—_G__ood girl_—and by the time he's dripping on the floor, she's pulled her gun from her holster and moving for the door. His gear is at the foot of the tub, behind the door, and instead of struggling with it on the floor, Chris elects to scoop up his belt and grab his gun as he moves.

"—I think it's Daniil," she tells him, hand on the door but waiting for him before she opens it.

"Yeah," is all Chris says, wiping his hand on his comforter to combat a slick grip. He figures it's their guide; he can him repeating,_ "Flash, flash, flash!" _loudly from the other side. They share a nod and Chris aims as Rebecca prepares to open the door.

She pulls it open and steps back in a single motion, Daniil takes a panicked leap into the room. "Slow down, buddy," Chris commands, though he tries to keep his tone light. The yellow light of the room makes the splatter across his chest and neck look brown, but Chris knows blood when he sees it.

Immediately, he begins to ramble in Russian, the words bursting from his mouth like they can't be said fast enough. He's so freaked out he either doesn't notice Chris' gun or doesn't care, but he's not _manic_ as far as Chris can tell. That can come with the fever after someone's been bit. The large, puffy vest he'd been wearing earlier is gone, and his grey hoodie was hit by several sprays of blood.

Rebecca keeps her handgun trained on the floor and places a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down," she says, catching his eyes and maintaining contact. "Calm down; what's happened?"

Daniil nods several times, taking gulping breathes trying to steady himself. He's spooked, but not hurt. Chris lowers his weapon, ignoring the way water is puddling beneath him and keeping his socks wet.

"Mina," is all he manages at first. The girl with the cough. Chris groans internally. _Great_. "I was to think I would go to her, checked for you, so you know, how bad her sick is. But, when I am arrived, Mina's family to tell me she is to go to Bad House."

_Hell, she turned_. Chris has a solid guess as to where this is going to, and turns towards the bathroom to get a towel. Daniil doesn't seem to mind, and keeps talking to Rebecca.

"I say I have been to Bad House, best is if seeing her is by me. She was, she was-" Chris runs the complementary towel over his face before sliding it to his neck. "She attacked me," Daniil goes on from the main room. "You said the head, so I grab the radio and I..." What he did was obvious, and Rebecca doesn't push him to say it. Chris puts a hand against the wall for balance as he lifts a leg to peel off his wet socks.

"You are best to know," he concludes, and Chris makes purposeful steps to his bag. Unzipping it, he digs around for a fresh pair of socks (because running around with wet feet is a nightmare in itself), and Rebecca steps around him to get to her bed where her holster and belt are hanging. There are several moments filled with the sound of buttons and clasps and vinyl being pulled over wet clothes, but they're quickly ready to go.

Rebecca comes to stand between Chris and the door, and it takes him a moment to realize she's blocking his path. "We need to go to Mina's," she tells Daniil. "Can you do that?"

He swallows thickly, clearly unhappy about the idea, but nods. "_Da_."

"Good." She puts on a small smile. "Go wait downstairs."

He does so without a look back, and Chris thinks the kid may be tougher than he realizes. Once his footsteps sound like they've reached the stairs, he looks down at her red head. "What?"

She takes a long breath, staring up at him with a strong eye. She's sizing him up, and he impatiently squints at her in response. "Are you good?" Rebecca asks, one hand resting on her gun with the other on her hip. It's not a confrontational stance, just comfortable.

His immediate reaction is snap that he's fine, but this isn't one his subordinates; it's _Becky_—and even if it were someone serving underneath him that shouldn't be his attitude about it. Is he good? He certainly doesn't feel good. Life's been bad enough lately, and Valram hit him like a bag of bricks. A bag he's still under, not to mention there weren't supposed to be any damn monsters to begin with—

—_But you can do your job, can't you? _Unpleasant surprises are so common in this business it's almost unfair to keep labeling them 'surprises'. Chris is in bad shape, but this place is far worse. _You won't have to get it together if you __**keep**__ it together_, he tells himself. _Your partner needs you; shape up._

"The best," he says with a tight smile, but at least it reaches his eyes.

Chris can't tell what she's thinking (she's too smart for him most days), but if Rebecca doesn't believe in him—doesn't_ trust _him—she doesn't say so. Instead, she nods, though there's a hesitance that's unmistakable. He'll just have to make sure he doesn't do anything to confirm her doubts. Well.

Anymore than he has.

"Let's go," he says, urging them on with a slightly strained smile.

"After you."

Does she trust him to lead the way?

Or does she not trust him at her back?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Thus begins the steady stream of B-squad characters that we'll be meeting up with for the next little while. Since I've been able to maintain a solid distance between posted chapters and written ones, I was thinking of adding a preview for next chapter at the end? Or maybe mentions of who'll be there, if that wouldn't be ruining it for some people. Or would you rather I increase the update schedule to twice a week? Let me know! If I don't hear anything back on it, I'll assume things are how you like it and won't fix what isn't broke. Be good to each other! We update Tuesdays.<strong>


	11. chapter 10: wild

**Author's Note: BONUS UPLOAD.**

* * *

><p>chapter ten<p>

**wild**  
><em>adjective<em>  
><em>wahyld/  
>an extremely unclear or complicated position or move<em>

_Tyrka, Russia_  
><em>22 September<em>  
><em>Khutors; Mina's House<em>  
><em>11:49 PM<em>

Chris has a headache.

It was one of those really annoying ones that started right behind the left eye, traveled around to throb at the bridge of his nose, and continue over to the right eye where, Chris is certain, some small insect is currently burrowing painfully behind the socket. The pulsing is magically in time with the dips of the uneven road they're hurrying along. It's not great. If he's _lucky_, some adrenaline will kick in to relieve some of the pressure.

He doesn't associate that word with himself often.

Case in point: he can hear the commotion from down the block.

Not good. No one's screaming, but there's several raised voice, conversations stacked on top of each other. Chris doesn't speak a lick of Russian, but he doesn't have to to know the concerned chatter is clearly about the excitement that took place at Mina's home. Rounding the corner, Rebecca gasps while Chris groans.

"_Come on_," he gripes loudly, scowling at the busy scene before him. Somewhere around twenty people are standing about, some on porches while others crowd the street. "These people need to get _out_ of here." Daniil looks back him, and Chris' patience is far from what it used to be. He gestures with his big arm. "Go on," he snaps. "Get them to leave."

Daniil flinches, and Chris can hear Rebecca behind him, scolding him with his name. The boy does _not_ look good. Not in an infected sense, but he's pale, and his eyes are too big. There's a bit of a shake to him, and Chris is guessing his internal fear response is stuck somewhere between fainting and blowing chunks. Until his body makes a decision, though, Daniil will have it in him to keep going.

As if to prove that point, the young man gives a weak nod and begins to shuffle into the crowd. Rebecca's nails dig into Chris' bicep as she pinches him with purpose.

"Have a heart," she chides, freeing his arm from her claws. Chris grimaces, rubbing the area, able to feel where she cut into the skin. "Some of us didn't stumble into our first zombie as an Air Force hero."

" 'Dishonourably discharged' isn't really _heroic_," he grumbles, checking his hand for blood. He's mildly surprised she didn't draw any. Stings like a son of a bitch.

She steps around his large frame to glare up at him. She's genuinely mad at him, he knows, but Chris still finds her expression cute. There's just something comical about the two of them: the big guy to her tiny girl. Apparently his amusement shows on some level, and Rebecca slaps his sore skin with an open palm.

"Friendly reminder," she says, talking over his hiss of pain. "Some of us fall apart before we get it together." Versus Chris' habit of muscling through the worst of it and breaking down later. There's another spike of frustration, his immediate defense mechanism to remind her she doesn't understand. To demand where she gets off criticizing how he's managed, _survived_, all this time. On his own. After Rebecca hung up her holster like a Goddamn _coward_—

—whoa. _Whoa_. A mental shake of his head isn't enough, and Chris jerks his head back and forth. He pinches the bridge of his noes, his eyes screwed shut. That sound again. That pitched whine, steadily rising until it's thick enough to sit in his ears and block out the world. Sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, it's always there, humming in the back of his mind—

"—ris?" A far away voice, muffled and distorted, like his head is submerged. Thick water, thicker than water, her touch buffered by it. "Christian?"

"_Chris_," he corrects, the world coming back into focus as the pressure drains down a sink. He opens his eyes—at least he _thinks_ he's fairly sure he has, but there's nothing to see but fuzzy, static colours against a black backdrop. After the second time he blinks, the old stone buildings, all rough and sturdy, and very real are where they're supposed to be. The colourful vests and head scarves sharpen and bring shape to the stringy, murmuring crowd.

Rebecca's pinched expression of anger has softened into practiced concern. Clinical, observant. She might not be a psychiatrist, but she seems to have no problem casting him beneath such a light. "Don't look at me like that," and he's pleased with how easy the words sound, his tone a light admonishment. _Looking at him like that_; like she's trying to solve the puzzle that is his mental state. What could a biochemist do? Slap his brain in a petri dish, scrape off some grey matter for a slide and have a look beneath a microscope. "I'm fine. Just a headache."

Loyal but not stupid, Rebecca moves to stand in front of him and his chest runs into her finger tips. "Why don't I go in there first?" It's a mild suggestion, but her eyes are advising him it's not up for discussion. Chris' body language is disagreeable, but he doesn't argue. Instead, Chris waits for the ringing to completely fade away as Rebecca rummages through one of her side packs. There's a small _pop!_ sound, and she holds out a hand.

"Take these," she instructs, three small, white pills resting in her gloved palm. "The aspirin should thin your blood so you don't crash from an adrenaline surge." She isn't feeling optimistic about the situation either. Not if she's setting up his body for some kind of kick-in response.

Chris swallows the pills dry while Rebecca repacks the bottle. "I'll check out the body; you help Daniil clear the crowd. If his instructions don't get the message across, your size will." That'll give his head a moment to clear as well.

"See you later, alligator." He pats her shoulder and moves to locate their bloodstained interpreter.

"In a while, crocodile."

_Maji Wilaya, Kijuju_  
><em>17 September<em>  
><em>Destabilized Zone; evidence catalog tent<em>  
><em>07:43 PM<em>

Sheva cannot decide if it's divine or harbinger that so much important paperwork has just been left all about.

On the one hand, no tireless hours spent sifting through useless information. On the other, every damn page has to be preserved and noted and paired. It almost feels like it's all been done on purpose. One final 'screw youse guys' from beyond the grave; Irving giving them an embarrassment of riches regarding something they know so little about. Everything has become important, and the whole process is encumbered because of it.

She's still on her bullcrap probation. With what Sheva can only assume was witchcraft, Excella Gionne managed to hide any and all her dealings with Albert Wesker. No digital footprint, no paper trail, nothing—all the proof that she was traipsing around, eager to be the queen of new world order, presumably went up in flames with the oil field and sank with the tanker... and her grotesque remains. Chris and Sheva didn't have a scrap of evidence between the two of them. That was fine, at first.

Then, however, Gioachino Narciso Gionne took the news of his daughter's death _hard_. Reasonable and understandable, and there's a part of Sheva's heart that went out to the man. She had lost her parents, but at least she's supposed to bury them. Losing a child must have been maddening.

_At least_. Gioachino made it his life's mission as the CEO of TriCell to ruin the BSAA, citing their gross negligence for the loss of his daughter. Someone did their homework, and it had to be publicly acknowledged that there had been an official withdraw order that several agents ignored. No names were given, thank _God_, but that meant TriCell had probable cause that someone at the BSAA screwed up.

Sheva might never be sure how much of TriCell was a part of Wesker's endeavors, or if only those directly involved with Excella and her misguided love story were at his whims, but it is _noticeably suspicious_ how hard the company fought the BSAA on this. Even after Gioachino's nervous breakdown and forced retirement. Both corporations spent a lot of time working hand-in-hand, yet TriCell turned on them quickly. In the end, whatever their motives, a lot of logic and evidence was on their side: Excella left a mindful bread trail, talking about riots nearing her resource cite, and that she and her fellow peace-workers were retreating to an oil refinery for safety. After that, she graciously thanked the oil company for offering her and her team safe passage from the chaos.

Seems she left out the part about collecting bodies. And Uroboros. And her delusional boyfriend. And her just being straight _crazy_.

Satellite imagining also shows the big, scary monster she became, but there was just no proving Excella _was_ that BOW. Chris and Sheva only had their word, and the fact that they disobeyed orders, against Excella's well documented adventure and shinning reputation.

It went about as badly for the two of them as anyone could expect.

The BSAA had to publicly acknowledge the mistake (of all the things to call it!), and advised the agents would be dealt with. Deep down, Sheva knows that in reality, the punishments she and her fellow agents were dealt are incredibly light. It could be immensely worse.

That doesn't mean she has to be happy about it.

They couldn't really touch Chris, she can be thankful for that much. Despite most of the BSAA at this point being filled with soldiers that have never even _met_ Chris, much less worked with him, there would have been an absolute mutiny if something had happened to him. The worst of his punishment was forced leave until the media calmed down. He was also stripped of his International Affairs position. Going forward, he'd be leading teams on the ground. It's a lot more responsibility, a lot higher death rate, and Chris took it on the chin like a man.

Josh is chained to his desk at the West African branch. A forced 'promotion', he now oversees most of the operations in the area, and is more or less forbidden from entering the field. For a man like Josh, who likes to be out with his men, breathing in the smoke and dust, it's been a depressing few years.

Similar fates were doled out to the other brave souls who refused to flee and stood their ground. Relocated and demoted, but thankfully, not a one of them was stripped of their honours. At the end of the day, they're all quietly glad DeChant didn't live to it, and that's just the end of it.

As for herself, Sheva is sitting cross legged on the floor, her boots tipped over at her side, her back killing her while she bends over, squinting at the papers in her hands. She's been reassigned to an intell collection branch of reconnaissance, while being listed as On Call. Not quite Chris' Active Duty, but a hell of a lot better than Josh's desk job. The last four years have kept her stationed in Kijuju, occasionally being called out to International Affairs. She _was_, anyway. She hasn't been anywhere since discovering the Batcave.

The misleadingly named room had been discovered during another BOW sweep near the cliffs where she and Chris first encountered Ricardo. Never did find out what happened to that weird bat...caterpillar thing. Beneath a rug and sheet metal, the latch pulls open to reveal stairs in a sharp twenty foot decent. Eighteen by twelve feet, Ricardo had quite the little pad down here. A Tempurpedic bed (oh my!) across from the entrance, with a long, steel work bench that stretches across the wall and stopping at a bathroom door. Interesting weapons and one of a kind guns (which she assumes were little gifts to himself during his dealings) are hung above the bench, illuminated individually by tiny wall lights. All the clips are empty.

At the end of the room is a writing desk and a lamp, matching the near the bed. The bathroom is nothing but a toilet and a tiny shower. Ricardo must have been _really_ roughing it, that poor pampered baby.

On the wall that shares the stairs, it's just built in shelf after built in shelf; files, reports, tied folders. Stacks of paper acting as book ends. A solid fourteen by ten feet of information that she's been sifting through for over two damn months. In fact, she's been spending so much time here, there's a duffle bag of clothes on the work bench for when she's too tired to do much else but sleep in the bed.

Reading this stuff isn't hard.

Understanding it is.

She sets the stack of papers in her hands down to reach up to the dark ceiling in a stretch. After all this time, the most progress she's really made is separating the Rainbow Manifesto from everything else. _What's that, you ask? Why, I haven't the bloodiest!_

Scattered around, Sheva has found some kind of time table that's color coordinated for someone else's convenience. In some kind of deciphering counter measure, not only have the pages been separated ,but the...events? interactions? that are on the page are listed out of chronological order. _Wide_ chronological order; no dates appear in any succession on the papers.

To make things even more frustrating, Sheva can't figure what's happening on the dates that _are_ presented. Each line has two coloured dots stamped onto them, with two- to three-word instructions between them.

_**Green from Yellow 04/09 27.3300 N 88.6200 E  
>Blue to Purple 2207 31.1980 N 29.9192 E**_

The dates are written little-endian, which is no problem for Sheva, but she's surprised someone like Ricardo would go to the pains of alternating the American format. If something like that is even important. She can begrudgingly admit to herself that she only picked it out to give herself a break from the colours.

She has no idea what those are. White, black, red, blue, green, yellow and purple. Sometimes she thinks they symbolize people, but she finds more weird instructions, and suddenly they're things. Though red and black might be destinations as they are only gone to according early dates, with black appearing in dates that haven't even happened yet. It all amounts to a big frustrating waste of time, as far as Sheva is concerned. She even went tearing through the other stacks of papers (which, by the way, she hasn't even figured out a pattern for any of that; if it didn't have coloured dots on it, it was tossed to the side), looking for some kind of a key or legend.

_Niks_.

So what could it mean?

"Absolutely _fucking _anything," she groans, palming at her tired eyes. She has to give it to Ricardo. She never thought in a million years that slimy weasel would have it in him. Maybe Wesker had a reason for hiring him after all...

..._Wesker_.

"Oh my god!" Sheva begins to sift hurriedly through the papers, looking for one in particular. _Where are you, where are you...! _One of the lines had been weird, it only had a black dot, no to or fro colour in correspondence. It's not in this stack, and she snatches another.

On the reading desk, there are four files, wrapped in cellotape. They were clearly labeled: ACCOUNT; E.G.; RECEIPTS. One of them is newer; she'd found it beneath a false bottom in the deep draw of the desk. It has A.W. stamped on it, and since the one labeled for Excella had yielded nothing in the way hard evidence, just instructions and the like, Sheva hadn't bothered to open it. After all, with all of them being dead, whatever Wesker was ordering Ricardo to do on a daily basis could be looked at later.

Later is now, because that A.W. has a date beneath it—"February sixth...!" she breathes, finding the paper—and it corresponds with one of the dots. Her stiff legs work against her as she stands shakily, nearly tripping over her boots. With a blue streak of swearing, Sheva hurries to the other side of the room.

She unsheathes the knife that's been strapped uselessly to her leg and cuts into the sticky plastic, dragging the blade up the tape. The knife clatters to the desk's surface, followed by the sharp_ crack _of tape splitting as she pulls open the file. It's thicker than all the others, God in heaven, why didn't she _notice_?

A large photo is paper clipped to the inside of the folder, a name scrawled in red along the lower left-hand corner. Taking a deep anticipatory breath, she pulls out the chair and lowers herself into it.

The picture takes up nearly the whole inside of the cover, showing the face of an unconscious man Sheva almost recognizes. The straight of nose, the cut of the jaw... He almost looks like—well, obviously it's_ not _him. It's close though. They could be brothers, though she's leaning more towards cousins. Chris had been insistent there were no siblings.

"Alright," Sheva sighs, suddenly rejuvenated. "...'Alex'? Who are you, and why would Ricardo care...?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I think when there's an exposition chapter like this, it'll go up outside of rotation, since not much happens in it, and that's not super fair to you guys. Review 8D ?<strong>


	12. chapter 11: shot

**Author's Note: I don't know if I mentioned this, but the chapters are chess terms. Bruce's flawless nickname of zombies courtesy of TheDonutMistress!  
><strong>

* * *

><p>chapter eleven<p>

**shot**  
>noun<br>_/shot/_  
><em>slang for an unexpected move that typically makes a<br>tactical threat or technical challenge for the opponent._

_Sikkim, India_  
><em>17 September<em>  
><em>Yumesongdong; west shanty ghetto<em>  
><em>07:43 PM<em>

Jake misses Sherry.

He is starting to have severe reservations about this whole 'new leaf' thing. Hard work is it's own reward, yada yada. That's been all well and good, except now no one has to give his phone a ring. The monsters roam the cities like they pay rent—and hey, maybe they do. Did.

Refugees brought the virus with them, but the locals are the largest mass. There's big part of Jake that wants to march up the hill the BSAA's villa is sitting pretty on and start demanding some renegotiation. He'd been happy to do it for the low low price of room and board, but after _this_ catastrophe, he is going on a Goddamned well earned vacation. That requires a lot of dough.

That he previously forfeited over a pair of big, blue eyes and the promise of a brighter world.

Fuck him, right?

Jake turns the apple over in his hand.

It's not about the _money_. It hasn't been about the money, not since Mom... Well, not for a long time. Those bills stopped coming in when she stopped being there to open them. It hadn't been about the money; it'd been about making her well. Whole. That's one benefit of Third World, war torn countries: you can get Goddamn near anything so long as you have the cash for it.

So he got the cash. He beat some, killed others. Whatever it took to pay for the pills.

She thought he was fighting crime. That her Jakob was taken far away to stomp out the guerrillas that were tearing the country apart. How exotic, he gets to travel—_like his father_. Knowing what Jake knows now, he wonders if Wesker spun a similar lie._ 'Gotta go! Saving the world from the other side of it.' _Is _bastard_ a hereditary trait?

Jake scowls at his reflection in the shiny red apple and takes a bite from it. He kept charging, though. Well after the pills ran out; well after the precious women who needed them was buried in the ground. What else was there for him to do, besides take out his aggression on monsters? Whether man or beast, if he could net upwards of twenty-K for managing his anger with his fist, why the hell not?

_Wasn't much of a life, was it, though? _At least when his mother was alive and ailing, he was a bastard with purpose. Doing arguably bad things to help someone important to him. Jake didn't know how to love any other way. He wasn't a hero.

_Sherry_ is, though. Swooped in and saved him—literally, sure, but in other ways, too. More important ways. Supergirl, out of Goddamn nowhere. It was hard to describe, so much happened so quickly, but in the end, he's now absolutely changed. He likes to think for the better.

Which is why he took this job. Jake's still fighting, that's an aspect of him that won't be going anywhere anytime soon, but now he's doing it for the _right reasons_. He's taking down bad science projects to protect, not gain, and it's no small part of him that feels good about that. Maybe he should be doing it for himself, but Jake feels a lot better doing it for Sherry. Maybe even a little bit for the world, he'll never admit it, though. A meager attempt to wash away the stain Wesker has left across the globe.

Mighty noble effort for a merc _scrub_. And a lot fucking harder to do with Sherry's influence waning the longer they're apart. The determination had been ironclad when their encounter had been so fresh. As the months have gone by, though, and the feel of her hand in his has faded, so has his drive.

Of course he isn't going to give up or anything completely lame like that. He just wishes she'd _answer her freaking phone_. Wiping his thumb along the side of his mouth after another bite, Jake checks his phone. Again. For the millionth time. Sherry never answers, whether it's a call or text, and this time is no exception.

That stresses him out a little. What a rollercoaster that's been. First he thought she was busy, then angry, then in trouble, then angry again. Jake even briefly considered that the government had sent a sweet, little blonde to gain his cooperation, and now that they had his blood for next to nothing, she was done with him.

That train of thought had been quickly discarded. There was just no faking the sincerity Sherry so effortlessly wraps herself in. What they have (or at least _had_) is real.

Whatever 'it' is. He doesn't want to think about that. He digs his teeth into the apple, holding it in place as he sends another message. A blip about the weather.

No, he knows she didn't use him. He's settled on the highly depressing and realistic idea that they took her phone from her. Then what's the point of him sending messages? Well, for starters, they always go through. So at least there's a chance she's getting them. Secondly, and maybe most importantly, talking to her _helps_. She never answers, of course, but that doesn't stop him from typing out his thoughts, sometimes late at night when something keeps him up, or just bitching to someone about traffic.

Jake still sends messages and leaves voicemails because he knows that if Sherry _could_ listen to them, she _would_. At least, he thinks so. He thinks she'd answer a call at three AM, or would wanna get lunch at some hole in the wall bistro.

She'd squeal and tell him to be careful from the back of his motorcycle, because she'd let him take them away for the weekend, as long as they're back Sunday night. They'd each be one half of two.

Probably. Maybe. He'd like to think so, like to _hope_ so. He'll never know, though, until she _answers her damn phone_.

Gravel crunches behind him, and Jake casually glances at the approaching agent.

"Howdy."

"Hey," Jake offers around a mouthful.

Bruce isn't offended. "Glad to see someone else 'round here ain't afraid to eat the local cuisine," he says with a nod to the nearly finishes apple. "Bunch'a babies are tearing through the MREs like it's a contest. I tell 'em the stuff here is good—I mean, we're here 'cause there ain't infection this far, right?—but, no." Jake takes another bite, completing his trip around the core. Bruce hooks his thumbs onto his belt. "You tried the _momos _yet?"

He shakes his head while swallowing. "Can't say I have."

"Oh, boy, you gotta." Jake wonders not for the first time how someone so... _not a Jarhead_ made it into this business. Mercenaries come in a few flavours, but none very sweet, and the official boys (what Bruce is supposed to be) are just clones, popped from a mold. Yet, here's this well meaning but stupid hick, in charge of half this operation.

"I'll get on it." No he won't. "Is there something you needed, boss, or...?"

Sikkim had been in some real trouble when Jake offered his services. Bruce and his teams have had the good sense not be picky about the help. Besides, that Wesker-eliminating, hulk of a man works for the BSAA; a freaking long shot, but maybe Jake could run across Chris Redfield and ask about Sherry. Not the reason Jake's here, of course, but if the opportunity presents itself, why not?

"Matter o' fact, I do." Bruce scratches at the days old stubble across his chin. "We're thinking of making a push down the river." Jake raises his eyebrows at that. From what he's heard, the water ways are nearly a suicide mission. One of those scary places where they brag when it's been so many days since a death, the wide sewers and water treatment facility were deadly enough before the monsters moved in. They actual reservoir and reserves are still safe, but it would be a mighty relief to have that facility cleared and protected.

Every attempt has gone absolutely abysmally.

Jake says as much. "If you want me gone, you could just fire me, you know."

Bruce barks a laugh. "Not even close, _amigo_. Most of those guys up there," and he nods to the hotel-turned-headquarters. "Their specialties lie strictly with BOWs—bio organic weapons. The creepos that're engineered to give a _real_ pounding. That stuff ain't great, but they're a little smart. They go looking for fights, wander around. They're meat machines; designed to kill.

"It's easy to hunt an animal. But that's not what's hanging out in the dark down there," he goes on, looking in the direction of the plant. It's built in to man-made hills outside of town... Well, at least outside of the refugee zone. Everything is bright orange as the sun sets. "Most of 'em haven't taken on swarms of T-carries, and those that have that ain't dealt with these zomburritos."

_...'Kay_. "This is very Apocalypse Now and, really, I'm moved, but," Jake shrugs impatiently. "Can you get to the point?"

Bruce huffs a laugh around his smirk, still looking out at the mounds of rock and desert. "I think you and me are the only folks here that have what it takes, to take that place back." Jake clicks his tongue. He figured as much.

He presses his palm beneath his chin to crack his neck. "Alright, then." He crosses his arms again. "You, me and the bossy lady?"

"Oh, no. Definitely not," Bruce laughs to himself, dropping his gaze to the dirt beneath their boots. "Let's keep this between us, _mano y mano_, alright? Ling's got enough to deal with."

Fong Ling's been a bit of a bossy _bitch_ as far as Jake's concerned, but for her high expectations and bad temper, she's extremely competent. For the most part, she stays off Jake's back, and that's been good enough for him. No one's out right said it, but he's ninety-nine point nine percent sure her and Bruce are knocking boots. If it's a secret, they're not working very hard to hide it outside of not straight up addressing it. Still, Jake would rather not get in the middle of whatever they have going on.

If he could, though, would he keep a mission like this from Sherry?

"Just say when."

"Alright!" Bruce nods with a thumbs up. "I'll make sure we have the latest layout of the place. Should be a few days. Gotta look when no one else is." Of course. Jake just waves him off. "You'll hear from me then._ Adios_."

"Later," is all Jake offers, half listening to Bruce walk away, while he pulls at his phone to send another message.

_Alexandria, Egypt_  
><em>23 July<em>  
><em>Island of Pharos; private residence<em>  
><em>03:17 PM<em>

Sherry misses Jake.

Her 'tour' doesn't amount to much. After finishing breakfast in a strained and confused silence, Green takes her around many of the hallways she'd already found earlier in the morning. She's reintroduced to the billiards room and plush reading room, and discovers a weight room across the hall from a den with a sense of humour; lavished with a wall spanning aquarium, the shelves are lined with _Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_, _the Hunt for Red October_, _Moby-Dick_, and the like. The aquarium goes deep, fish being able to swim out of sight.

And there's at least one shark.

She's scratching a finger nail against the glass at a cheery-looking clown fish. "Finally," Green says behind her. Sherry straightens as she turns around to look at him. He's drapped across the long, antique-looking couch like he's the king of Persia himself. He's got that closed off look again, and she tries not to swallow thickly.

"Your frown's pretty," he tells her, the air getting heavy. _What is this? Is it him? How is he doing it?_ she wonders, her lips parting. She doens't know why; it's not like she's breathing. "But that smile is better."

That's when she thinks of Jake. Sherry used to have daydreams about Claire, and sometimes with Leon, kicking in the door to take her away from her life. There would be varying degrees of action—some days, it was guns blazing with a dramatic helicopter escape, others it was merely the signing of some paperwork and she was off to her new life—but while the specifics changed, the faces didn't. Not the people. Leon and Claire had saved her life before, and she thought if she wished hard enough, they'd do it again.

The last few days, though, they've been joined by a third person—if not replaced all together. Jake shows up on the plane, or was waiting at the front doors of the manor; crashed through a window, sending glass across the breakfast table. Just now, he takes those long, confident strides into the room. However he gets to her, it always ends with him taking her by the hand running to anywhere. Anywhere works, so long as they're together.

When she's with Green (and Mrs White), Sherry gets this weird, hot, floaty feeling. She can't think of a proper way to describe it, but it goes _deep_. It makes her blood itch, and Sherry wants to scratch, wants him, them, _him_ to scratch.

"What are you thinking?"

His questions startles her, and she blushes, looking purple in the blue light of the tank. That hooded, heated look of his. Like he's got a damn good guess at what she was thinking. Maybe he knows what it means more than she does. Still, whatever that feeling is... Whatever it makes her want... More than anything else, she wants Jake to come take her away. From here.

From the itch.

She screws her eyes shut for a moment, trying to will the embarrassment away. "It's afternoon," tumbles out her mouth, and she blinks at him like he has an explanation for it.

"So it is!" Flip of the switch; the whole room seems lighter, from the air to the actual light of the room. Green swings his legs around as he sits up, all bright eyes and jubilence. "Time I get you down the Plum."

Right. For the not-tests. The weird, hot worms that are wriggling around her stomach immediately die away as Sherry sobers with the thought. _I don't want to_. They made it sound more like a physical, but that's how it started back home. Little things, tiny favours; presented to her like games. None were very fun.

Green is at the door, the _click_ of the turning knob bringing her back to the present. She hadn't seen him move, is she that out of it?

"Follow me, sweet pea."

"Ms Pea," she corrects with a snapped grumble, resigning to one nickname in hopes of abandoning the other. She does as she's told, though. The posh, wooden and carpeted hallways give way to white, sterile stretches. The walls disappear into the ceiling and floor, and makes Sherry a little dizzy. Up looks like down and vice versa, and she hopes she isn't left to find her way back on her own. She doubts she'll make impressive progress.

Green has that carefree bounce to his step, yet he is uncharacteristically quiet. Not that Sherry always likes what comes out of his mouth, but the silence is only worsening the effect their walk is having on her.

"About Mrs White's dad," she ventures into the hush. Her voice doesn't echo and Sherry finds that surprising.

Green tilts his head towards her, but keeps his eyes forward. "Hm?"

"What's up with him?"

"Oh, _that_." Sherry gives him an odd look. It sounded like a secret before, but he sounds bored already. "He got infected." A pang of sympathy settles heavily into her heart.

"I can't imagine," she says sadly. "Watching a parent become a zombie."

Green sniffs. "No, _my_ dad was the zombie. Her's became a monster." His correction is bland, uncaring, but he won't look at her. There's stress around his eyes, his jaw clenched. She recognizes the signs of anger, not wanting to talk about something. Jake did something similar in that locker room at that Chinese Neo-Umbrella facility. Her heavy heart must be showing, because he tch's.

"Don't feel sorry for _them_. Her dad did it to himself." She hesitates, wondering if he has something to say about his own. He does, as they round a corner. It's the darkest she's heard his voice, and the angry lines on his face deepen with a scowl.

"Mine had it coming."

_I'm not going to ask_, she thinks, determined to find the seamless tile floor interesting. _I'm going to __**die**__, but I'm not going to ask_. Still, to know they all lost their fathers like that... Sherry has spent years feeling like the only person in the world to know that pain. It's not exactly comforting to find out she's been wrong.

Sherry thinks it wise not press, and starts picking at her fingernails as they walk. "_Anyway_," he carries on, breezy and bright, and she wonders if it hurts to change emotional gears like that. "Mr Body found a way to stabilize him. Given the right amount of time, in the right conditions, he'll bond with the virus. Reform."

"How is that possible?" she asks, a little haughty and disbelieving. Once somebody changes, that's it. It's over. Horribly, horribly over.

Green shrugs. "I don't crunch the numbers. I just know it works. I've seen it," he tells her, finally tossing his eyes on Sherry. "He was a big, blob of goo. Now he's a long blob of _stuff_. He's even got almost an arm with a hand." He holds up one of his and wiggles his fingers. "That's what White does while she's there; holds his hand."

Sherry's look is still skeptical, but her frown is thoughtful. She wonders if something like that could have been done for _her_ dad. That's what he was in the end, right? A big, terrible blob of meat—with writhing tentacles and slimy teeth, and that stupid, ugly eyeball that stared at her in her nightmares. The ones where she's chocking on that cold, fleshy slug, _too big for her throat, filling her mouth with mucus, in the distance there is a monster screaming her name_—

She coughs into her hands to hide her gag. It's been a long time since she's thought about that on purpose. _With good reason_, she thinks bitterly. Suddenly exhausted, Sherry's about to ask him if they can come back later, but he stops them at a door. This place is dazzlingly identical how can he tell?

Without knocking, he opens the door and strolls in, Sherry quietly following behind him. While white, it's not as bright as the hallway, and she's grateful. There's an island lined with cupboards and a stainless steel surface, with thin computer monitors on top with no keyboards. The cupboards and draws are clear, showing off clean, unoccupied equipment. Mostly rows of flasks, beakers, and racks of test tubes as far as she can tell. She can do little more than peer at them though, following Green towards the person sitting on a backless stool, typing at the far end of the room.

It's a woman, she realizes, the lab coat tucking in at the waist, the woman's legs crossed at the knee. Dress flats and navy Capri slacksare all Sherry can see from this angle. Black hair is twisted around into pigtails at the back of her head.

When the woman continues to type, and Green doesn't say anything, Sherry works up some nerve. "I've met the Professor," she reminds him, pleased with the lack of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes, you have," answers the woman, the clacking of the keyboard stopping. Swiveling around on the stool, Sherry has to swallow her gasp. "He is the Professor," she goes on, a slight skip on the 'R' from a faded Japanese accent. "And _I'm_ Plum."

At least Sherry knows why she recognized the Professor; she met him at a few Christmas parties. Her mother would complain about Plum when she thought Sherry wasn't paying attention from the back seat. They worked with her parents.

Frederick Downing and Yoko Suzuki.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Oooh these chapters are getting long! If you guys prefer, I can try to chop them up. But here we are! Jake! And the first reveal of a codename identity: Frederick "the Professor" Downing and Yoko "Plum" Suzuki making up Professor Plum. And a solid hint to the identities of Mrs White and Mr Green (; For those unfamiliar, Fred is from the Resident Evil CG movie <em>Degeneration<em>, and Yoko is from the _Outbreak_ series. **

**While we're here, since it was asked in a review, all the colour codename characters _are_ existing characters in the Resident Evil series. Feel free to be moderately suspicious of them. **

**Leave your thoughts, feelings and favourite colour in a review! **


	13. chapter 12: quiet move

**Author's Note: Here, I got this for you.**

* * *

><p>chapter twelve<br>**quiet move**  
><em>noun<em>  
><em>ˈkwīət, moov/_  
><em>move that does not attack or capture an enemy piece<em>

_Washing, DC_  
><em>08 August<em>  
><em>DSO park; FOS intelligence offices<em>  
><em>03:43 PM<em>

Helena has made up her mind.

"I _want_ to tell you that I appreciate what you did for me," she says, the unkind breeze messing with her hair. Summers in the Capital are brutal, and blistering wind feels like she just opened an oven. The rooftop park atop the intelligence building is deserted save for the two of them. No one's crazy enough to hang out in the heat. They can speak freely because of it.

"I really do," Helena goes on, shaking her head slowly, strands of hair catching on the sweat of her neck. "But I can't. I _can't_."

She stands at the edge of the roof, overlooking the city, and she grabs the chain link fence with one hand. Her companion says nothing. The Division of Security Operations owns every building on the block, and Helena wonders briefly what it would have been like to work in such a department. Briefly, because there's no point in wishing now. "I didn't join the Secret Service for the glory," and she huffs with a deprecating smirk. "Good thing, since there isn't any. No, I..." Her gaze becomes unfocused, hazy like the skyline. "I wanted to protect someone important, I wanted to serve. Be a part of something greater—trust the system, you know?"

Looking behind her then, the only response is an adjustment of sunglasses. Helena isn't offended. If she wanted, she could be talking to a wall. She needs to get this off her chest, she wants to make it clear.

"I'm betraying that system, though. I betrayed it before, and I'm betraying it now. _Right now_," she stresses, making a wide gesture with her free hand. "Just being here is mocking everything I set out to do."

Finally, a response comes from her companion on the shady bench. "I'd say 'you're welcome', but you never did say 'thank you'."

"How could I?" Helena asks with an acerbic chuckle. "I felt like such a bastard for not going down with the ship and its crew."

"You weren't the captain."

She snorts, glaring at something that isn't there. "Oh no, but I'm the reason it _sailed_."

An unflattering sound comes from the shade. "Simmons would have found someone else. The man was _very_ good at getting what he wanted," and as an after thought, "Get over yourself, Agent Harper."

It's a friendly jab, though they aren't friends and Helena suddenly wishes they were. "I know the score." It's an admission, stated plainly. She isn't confused, and maybe that's the worst part.

A pause. And then, "He had your sister," comes softly from the shade. Understanding, sympathetic.

Misplaced.

"Only an_ idiot_ would believe Simmons would keep his word."

"Or desperate sisters."

"I could still _think_," Helena bites off. She's getting angry (at herself) all over again. "Deborah was dead the moment he got his hands on her. And I _knew_ that. Still, I thought, how could I live with myself I didn't _try_?" Her grip on the fence tightens, the sun toasted metal cutting into the skin of her fingers. "What's two-hundred **thousand** people_ and _the fucking **President**? I _tried_, right?"

She chokes on the last bit, and has to take a moment to swallow a dry sob. "We were completely and totally screwed," she sniffs. "I should have done what I was _supposed_ to do and bit the bullet."

Silence. Her company is a smart cookie. It'd be a wonder if she hasn't figured out Helena's point yet. No point in holding off anymore.

"I'm going to turn myself in."

"Your funeral."

Helena takes no offense, and just continues one as if there was no interruption. "I believe in justice, and my freedom isn't justice. Ducking the ax isn't doing right-not by Deborah, and sure as hell not by Adam." Keeping quiet means no one knows what Simmons did to Deborah. Not punishing Helena is not punishing Simmons for her sister's murder.

The wind picks up again, that dry air consistently too hot. She turns into it, facing the heat with closed eyes. Her hair lifts in the strong breeze, dragging across the sheen of sweat on her skin before twirling in the air. Helena takes it in, thinking about her sister, and wondering what Leon will think when he hears the news. _Sorry, Leon_, she thinks, taking a deep breath. _But what's right and what's best and what you want can't always be the same thing_.

Exhaling slowly, she opens her eyes, feelingly weirdly light. She's about to be locked away, but she's never felt more free. Behind her, her companion sighs and stands, heels clicking on the cement as she leaves the shallow safety of the shade.

"The suppression of evidence will not come to light," Hunnigan states, lifting her chin to expose her neck to the breeze. "Any suggestion that the attorney general was aware of your involvement will be denied. Of course."

"_Of course_," she agrees with a breathy chuckle. "Such a kindness never happened."

"Glad you recognize the thought behind it." The tone isn't quite bitter but it certainly isn't sweet. Helena understands the thin resentment. Several policies and laws were broken to spare Helena a domestic terrorism trial.

The wind dies down, and with a long sigh, she rests her forehead against the fence. "Think I'll get tossed into GitMo?" she asks lazily, looking down at the busy street below. She's going to miss the hustle of this city. Any city.

"...Not for long," is all Hunnigan says at first, and then, as she pretends to adjust her glasses to give her hand something to do, "You'll probably be sentenced rather quickly." Helena closes her eyes. "I wasn't joking, when I said it'd be your funeral."

"I know." And she does. When she adds nothing to that, Hunnigan shifts uncomfortably.

"_Do_ you?" she insists, trying to press the point without being argumentative. "You'll be executed."

Helena smirks then, something long that splits into her left cheek. Again, the hot wind comes around to drag her hair into the air.

"I hope they aim for the head."

_Mixcóatl, Bolivia_  
><em>17 September<em>  
><em>markey place; water well<em>  
><em>10:23 AM<em>

Claire snaps her gum.

"For the record," she calls distantly, standing out in the middle of the road while the people with guns check out the buildings across the way from each other. "I was right about the luggage."

They'd left the jeep parked just outside the barrier, and began the slow crawl across the town. _What's left of it, anyway_. Working with TerraSave, Claire has seen far more than her share of decimated communities. Towns with broken doors, and bloody corners where someone ran out of room to run; where cars, houses, bodies are burning, and the air is grey and hazy with smoke; where broken glass is somehow everywhere, and dark hand prints are a sign to stay away.

This palce is somehow completely different. Mixcóatl was _ravaged_ way back when, and if there were survivors, they have worked extra hard to keep themselves a secret. Claire stands at what must have been a busy part of town, staring at one of the many fruit stands that line the street. The watermelons and apples were left to rot, but even decay can grow bored, she guesses; withered, black husks, collapsed on themselves and hardened. There isn't even an odor, and this place is full of stuff. Even the meat, strung up on hooks, has been dried out, baking in the sun for all these years. Whatever the animals didn't get to, anyway.

"It being a rookie mistake, I mean."

There's a dry laugh from Carlos' side of the street, and a very pointed silence from Leon's. Claire might have teased him about it any day of the week, but she's needling him good naturedly with some ulterior motives—aside from her obligatory and well earned 'I told you so'.

While it'd be understandable to be grumpy about having his bag lost, she doesn't think that's the real reason behind Leon's change in attitude. He's been very quiet since they arrived, and she'd say even occasionally sullen. She knows that one of—if not _the_—first missions he undertook for the government took place here, but that's about all he's shared on the subject.

She's been tempted a few times to ask him what's wrong (though, can't she imagine?), but with Carlos around, Claire thought it prudent not to. Some things are hard to share, even harder with strangers within earshot. Maybe they can split up and search for clues, gang, and she can ask him then. Claire would feel a little bad sending Carlos off on his own, but this place has been thoroughly scrubbed and lonely for a long time.

Still, better safe. Claire wanders over to a lone, sun-bleached stone well, setting her hands atop the rim. It's coated in dirt and dust, a fine powder turning her palms and fingers a chalky yellow. She can see small ripples catching light some thirty feet down, but it's too dark for Claire to find a reflection.

The way she understood it, several of the communal wells were poisoned with the T-Veronica virus to wipe everyone out at once. Horrifying, but there's some part of her that's glad no one was eaten.

Always with the silver linings.

Dirt is crunching behind her, and Claire faces Leon as he approaches her. "Thoughts?" she asks, dusting off her hands and leaning against the well. She's vaguely aware there will be a block of yellow across her jeans.

"Not gonna offer a penny first?" He comes to stop beside her, peering into the well as she did.

"I don't know what the currency here is," she offers with a sly smile, crossing her arms comfortably. "Didn't want to be a presumptious American." It's a dumb joke, but he smiles at it, and Claire's happy she made it.

"No one would ever accuse you of that."

"Nah, that's your shtick."

"_Claire_." She laughs while he shakes his head, but she can see that smile. Comfortable silence settles like dust. Leon lifts his hands from the bricks, grimacing at the chalk on his gloves. Lightly, "I'm not_presumptuous_."

"You _are_ American, though," Claire hums. He tips his head in acknowledgement, though his smile is slowly leaving his eyes. She kicks at a pebble and, after making sure Carlos isn't nearby, says, "Talk to me."

Not that Claire has ever really interacted with Leon when he's off the clock, but she gets the impression his personality is the same on the field as it is off. There are lots of things he deems to deal with with later. Later is always later, though, and never now. And right now, he looks like he'd rather be dealing with this later.

"_Don't_." Claire blinks, realizing she's been staring at his shoulder. The one that had been open, ugly and bleeding when she thought she'd found another dead cop. Her big blue eyes look up at him through her lashes, but not in a doe-eyed way. Claire could never pull off the damsel stare, nor would she want to. That doesn't mean she won't happen to get her way from time to time, though.

"Don't what?"

She's surprised by the answer. "Don't try to psycho-analyze me or whatever."

Claire's brow furrows in confusion and annoyance, her lips parted, ready for whatever snarky remark that makes its way out. "...For asking how you_ are_?" she asks, incredulously. Closer to sarcasm. "I hadn't realized I needed a _degree_ to use 'what's up' in conversation."

He scoffs then, looking away and probably rolling his eyes. Claire narrows hers. Her tolerance level for_ attitude _is a wild, fluid thing; fluxing from unending to non-existent and several places in between. It's uncomfortably hot and muggy. The ends of Claire's ponytail drag wetly across the back of her neck, her skin coated in a sheen of moistures from the raw humidity. They're standing in the remnants of a sad place with a miserable end—all because of Ada-stupid-Wong, and the fact Sherry is still _missing_, and—

Yeah, she's not in the mood.

"_Please_," she continues caustically. "What other_ technical _terms should I eliminate from conversation? 'How was your day?'; 'Are you hungry?'; oh no wait, _wait_, I've got it-"

"_Claire_," Leon tries, sounding tired and sorry.

" 'Hi, my name is Claire, what's your's?' "

The silence that comes between them this time wedges itself there uncomfortably. It's big and unkind, Claire scowling at the side of his head while Leon glares tiredly into the well. Maybe he found his reflection. This happens to them sometimes, where Claire is in some heightened emotional state and Leon doesn't know what to say anymore. Like outside the elevator in Harvardville.

Or the STARS office in Raccoon City.

One of them ends up leaving first. It's usually Leon. It's always Leon.

She thinks she hears 'typical' from beneath his breath, and she is _this close _to shoving him into the well. But he outdraws her.

"I lost three people here."

Claire might be high on pettiness and low on patience, but she'll always have a heart. The fight leaves her quickly. She exhales softly, her annoyance softening to sympathy. Seems as though Leon's first day as a secret agent was as bad as his first day as a cop. After a moment, "When you have a bad day, you _really_ swing for the fences."

He puffs a "Yeah" into his laugh, though it isn't funny. The smile that's struggling on his lips is so deprecating, and she can't stand it. She prefers Leon confident to the point of inconvenience.

"I stubbed my toe last week," Claire tells him distantly, faux disinterest heavy in her tone. "So don't act like yo're the only one having a hard time."

Leon outright laughs at that, turning to look at her fully. There's a weighty appreciation in his gaze, something Claire would think is reserved for a more precious person. A lover, probably.

"I could kiss you, some days."

Oh. It's her turn to scoff and smile. It's teasing and friendly, just north of flirtatious. "You could. But be more worried about if you _should_. You _are_ next to a thirty foot drop, after all."

In a parallel universe, there's another world where all is right in it: they meet when Claire is on her way in to visist Chris and Leon is just getting off his beat shift; they have burgers at Emmy's and she gives him her pickles, and they make out in his jeep, and get married. Everything is perfect. Without the other knowing it, they both think about that place sometimes.

But there is not here.

No matter how soft the moment is.

"_Hola_," comes muffled from their pockets. Their phones are set as walkie-talkies. "_I was gonna keep acting like I couldn't hear you guys_—" In a snap they blanch, scarlet running across their cheeks, making their ears burns.

"—_But you both __**really**__ need to see this_."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Not that it really matters what I put here, but I noticed the sun shined and the stars are bright. Clearly trying to make up for the light that was lost recently. Cherish your friends, folks. Never know when they're going to blink out. Review if you'd please. We update Tuesdays.<strong>


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